


Third and Sixteenth

by Le_Rouret



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Clint Barton, Bittersweet, Bucky Barnes Feels, Christmas, Clint and Laura Barton's Family, Gen, Mental Instability, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8278438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Rouret/pseuds/Le_Rouret
Summary: The thing about Manhattan diners is, you can never tell who's gonna walk in the door.Bucky struggles to remember who and what he is, taking refuge in a small New York diner. But the outside world simply won't leave him alone.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheraiah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheraiah/gifts).



> This story grew out of conversations that my beta, Sheraiah, and I have had about Bucky Barnes' PTSD, and also my mother's horrified response to the EST that Bucky endured in both "Winter Soldier" and "Civil War," and her memories of mental patients from the sixties she had worked with in institutions during her nurse's training. Post Civil War, Bucky is still missing his arm, and is wandering homeless around the streets of Manhattan when he happens upon a little run-down diner.

**1**

 

            There was a couple sitting at the back booth, bent close, whispering, their eyes constructing walls around them. Infatuation seeped out of their leather jackets and horn-rimmed glasses. They were talking about Ayn Rand and Nietzsche. The only other client in the diner crouched over his steaming coffee mug at the counter, shading his eyes with his hand, too drunk to go home yet.

            The radio sitting next to the grill, choked with grease and dust, whined Billie Holiday. Milt wiped the grill and D’joris wiped the counter. There was a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink but no one to wash them. Milt and D’joris were avoiding the argument over who would clean them up.

            The diner at Third and Sixteenth smelled like fried chicken, coffee, and Pine Sol. It was almost closing time. If Milt and D’joris didn’t figure out who was going to be stuck doing the dishes, they would leave it to the cockroaches. Then José would be _really_ pissed.

            The bell at the front jingled. D’joris looked up at the hooded figure pushing the door open, irritated. It was eleven o’clock and Milt had already cleaned the grill. “We closed,” she said, and hummed “Summertime.” Milt glanced past her, looked down at the grill, and then looked at the door again, his shoulders straightening. D’joris turned back to the door, heart sinking. They hadn’t been held up in three months. She didn’t want to lose her tip money again.

            The white man filled the door, broad-shouldered and tall, his dark blue hooded sweatshirt shading his pale eyes and face. The thousand-yard stare unnerved her. His left arm hung limp, but she could see his right hand, opening and closing. His nails were filthy.

            “I wanted to ask,” he said. His voice was husky and unsure. “If I could go through your dumpster.”

            Milt moved from the grill to where D’joris stood by the counter. He edged in front of her, and she was grateful for his bulk. “Sure, man,” said Milt, his deep voice soothing. “You go right ahead. Ain’t gonna stop you.”

            The man at the counter stiffened and raised his head. The couple in the booth fell silent, watching. The white man stared past Milt, past D’joris. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, then his teeth gripped them, briefly, and his gaze slid to Milt.

            D’joris knew that appraising look. Weighing, measuring Milt’s size, his threat, his protective stance. She cringed a little inside herself, looking at his pockets. She couldn’t see the telltale weight of a gun, but these days you never knew.

            The sound of the white man’s shoes on the old linoleum scraped and shuffled. He ducked his head, hiding his eyes in the shadows of the hooded sweatshirt, and nodded.

            “Thanks.”

            The door jangled as he backed out into the street. D’joris let out a breath, and the couple in the booth started to whisper again, low and frantic. One of them took out a phone.

            “Should we call 911?”

            The man at the counter squinted at Milt. “That was one creepy-ass fucker.”

            “You just hold on there.”

            Milt glared at the hipster couple, then turned to D’joris. “I’m’a check him out.”

            “Milt, don’t you dare,” said D’joris. “Leaving me in here.”

            “Be a sec,” said Milt. “Be okay.”

            “Hell it will,” said D’joris, but let Milt go.

            The man at the counter and the hipster couple paid and left in an insulting hurry, leaving D’joris alone. She hedged her bets and locked the door behind them, turning the sign to read “CLOSED.” She couldn’t hear Milt in the back. He’d been gone five minutes. But no gunshot, no raised voices. She finished closing out the register and zipped up the cash bag, debating whether or not to put it in the safe. On the one hand, creepy hoodie guy would demand it quickly, and it would be better to just give it to him without fuss. On the other hand, José would be pissed if she didn’t even try to save the diner’s take for the day.

            She heard the back door open and close, heard Milt’s deep, soothing voice. She leaned closer to the edge of the grill, listening hard.

            “Hot water, dish soap, there’s the rack. Garbage can. Trash bags there. Then throw it in the dumpster.”

            “Okay.”

            “When you done, full meal and a Coke.”

            “Okay.” A pause. “Thank you.”

            “No problem, man.”

            Milt loomed back into the front of the diner. D’joris was furious. “What are you doing?” she demanded in a hiss. “Lettin’ that hobo in here?”

            “He hungry,” said Milt. “Ain’t et in days. Disabled.”

            “What?”

            “One arm.” Milt patted his left bicep. “Just a, what do you call it.”

            “Prosthesis?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Huh.” D’joris glanced into the back. The creepy hoodie guy had filled the sink with hot, soapy water and was washing the dishes, his face blank. She could see the cheap metal and plastic hand open and close, the creaky gear wrist lift, turn, lower. The other hand had been scrubbed clean and was washing, rinsing, stacking, washing, rinsing, stacking, washing, rinsing, stacking. His hoodie was dirty and frayed and his pants were much too big. He obviously hadn’t shaved in a while and long, greasy black hair hung lank over his pale, angular face. He looked up at her then, light blue eyes cold and expressionless as steel, a sharp contrast with the sensual red curve of his lip.

            D’joris jerked back and glared at Milt.

            “What you gon’ tell José?” she demanded.

            Milt shrugged. “Tell him he shoulda hired us a busboy to do them dishes.”

            D’joris huffed at him and glared. But Milt’s wife had immunized him against this, and only stared back challengingly. She would not win this battle.

            D’joris finished cleaning up front, sweeping the floor and wiping down the rest of the tables. She switched off the front lights and peered out the plate glass window through the bars, hoping a cop was coming by on his beat. Her back prickled with the knowledge that the creepy guy was in the kitchen.

            Milt did not share her apprehension. He cleaned and prepped the grill, and then went to the back to check the fridge and freezer. She heard him speak to the creepy hoodie guy, and heard a terse response. She stayed by the glass, unsure. When Milt came back through, he looked a little grim.

            “Gon’ give him that leftover fried chicken, some bread, and them green beans. And maybe a piece of pie.”

            “Milt, don’t you dare,” snapped D’joris.

            “Aw, come on,” wheedled Milt, smiling. “He doin’ a fine job. Almost done. Good quick work.” He paused. “Think he done KP.”

            D’joris’ heart softened a little. “Vet?”

            “Think so. Act like it. Detached, you know.”

            D’joris did know. Her daddy hadn’t been the same after ‘Nam. “Coke machine’s still on,” she said. “I’ll heat up the chicken and beans.”

            “Yeah,” said Milt.

            Five minutes later, a cop walked by on his beat, glanced in the plate glass windows of the diner, and D’joris just waved. He waved back and passed on. She put the chicken, bread, and beans on a paper plate, then took out some plastic flatware and a Styrofoam cup of Coke, placing it nervously on the counter. She glanced towards the back. She could hear Milt speaking, low and quiet. Then movement, and they came into the front. Milt was a big man and very powerful, but the creepy white guy, though several inches shorter, held himself whipcord-tight, braced and dangerous. His eyes were blank and hollow, and his mouth in a straight line. He met D’joris’ gaze impassively, and looked at the plate of food, contemplative. D’joris pushed it forwards.

            “Here you go, man,” said Milt. “Eat up.”

            The white guy glanced at the windows, looked behind him at the opening to the back, and picked up the plate. He took it to the back of the diner, up against the wall, and stood and ate mechanically, switching his attention from the front door to the back. D’joris wondered how long she could hold her breath without fainting. Milt wiped down the counter again, keeping up a one-way conversation.

            “So the Yankees, they got to get they act together, man, that last game with the Sox, man, I was ‘shamed to be from New York, you know? We can do better than that.”

            No reply.

            “Got the Greek festival startin’ up nex’ week, gon’ have some baklava and that meat on skewers, you know? That good stuff, and we be open with drinks and fries. Music kinda crazy but it’s all good, right?”

            Silence while the white guy chewed and watched and chewed and watched, his pale eyes fixed on Milt now, though whether he was actually listening was anyone’s guess.

            “My ol’ lady, she sing in the choir at church, Voices of Bethlehem, she got a good voice, man. They gon’ sing at the Vinyard nex’ week, bringin’ in people for the revival. They real good, man, you need to go an’ hear ‘em.”

            The white man paused, then picked up the piece of chicken and started to strip the meat and skin off the bone with his teeth, greedily, hungrily, his eyes on Milt. He tore into the ligament and tendon, sucking and pulling and chewing, and D’joris wondered when he had last eaten. His eyes were hollow and empty, but his fingers trembled around the food as though he had spent a lifetime starving to death.

            “She work at that baby store at the park, sell cribs an’ things, but our kids, they all grown. Got one grandbaby and one on the way, daughter Laquanda gon’ give us a li’l grandson. Can’t wait to teach him to play ball, you know.”

            The white guy’s eyes flicked away, and his mouth, coated with chicken grease, twitched as though something had poked him. His tongue, surprisingly wet and red, skimmed across his lips and he swallowed. The Adam’s apple in the unshorn neck wobbled. D’joris saw the battered red shirt he wore beneath the hoodie was frayed and dirty. Bulky shoulders shifted, and the prosthetic arm reached for the Styrofoam cup of soda. The flimsy-looking hand picked it up and brought it to the man’s mouth, and he drank deeply, finishing it in one long draught. He put it down, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, then looked at Milt expectantly.

            “Gon’ get cold this week, weatherman says. Got a cold front movin’ through. October pushin’ in, lotta folk goin’ up to Connecticut and New Hampshire to see the leaves. You ever see the leaves up there? Awful pretty. Took my ol’ lady up there last year, it was real nice.”

            The paper plate was empty except for the bones. D’joris held her breath. Now was the point the man needed to go. He had to; they had to leave, she couldn’t walk to the station knowing this man was lurking out there, watching her with that demoralizing pale stare. He either left or he robbed them.

            He stepped forward, one, two steps. Milt took a deep breath. This was it, then. He was going to rob them.

            Those curved red lips frowned, and the tongue flicked out briefly. His one hand opened and shut, opened and shut. He looked from Milt to D’joris and back again. Milt moved, slowly, deliberately between her and the white man. He watched, his face expressionless. The fluorescent lights hummed and the radio dissolved into static. D’joris could hear Milt breathe, fast and shallow, belying his casual pose.

            The white man stared at them, perfectly still.

            “You want more chicken, man? More beans?”

            Milt’s voice was careful now, waiting for the jump, the gun, the knife, the spew of irrational and violent tirade. D’joris’ hand stole of its own accord to his elbow. He felt solid and strong, but he was trembling. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. She hoped the cop would pass by again and see them, knock on the plate glass, ask if they were okay.

            The lights hummed. The grill ticked quietly as it cooled. A cab passed, honking.

            “Thank you.”

            D’joris took a deep breath.

            “I was … hungry.”

            The man looked away from them, eyebrows puckered as though he were trying very hard to think of something, something important that continually evaded him. Still his right hand opened and shut, opened and shut. His mouth worked, and he blinked down at the table, confused.

            “You want seconds?”

            D’joris couldn’t believe she had offered, couldn’t believe that, even in her fear, her compassion would get the best of her.

            He looked up at her through the greasy wreck of his hair. “I. No. But.” He looked away again. “Thank you,” he said, and he sounded unsure. “But.”

            “Hey,” said Milt. “We ain’t got no busboy, no one to do our dishes or nothin’. You want breakfast, we got work for you.”

            All D’joris could think was, _José is gonna kill him._ But she looked at the ill-fitting pants, the dirty sweatshirt, the sunken eyes and cheeks, and wondered, _Iraq? Afghanistan? Saudi Arabia?_ Those pale eyes tilted to the side, found an empty corner, contemplated it blankly, as though he were not there at all. His eyebrows drew together, and he frowned.

            “Hey,” said Milt, and the man’s eyes lifted, met Milt’s, confused and lost. “There’s a sleeping bag in the storage room. We gon’ to lock up. You here in the morning, I make you breakfast and you do the bussing and dishes, yeah? That good?”

            “I,” the man said. He struggled wordlessly, his eyes on Milt. There was something important he needed to tell them, D’joris thought; something that would convince them to push him out the door, to run from him, to stay as far away as they could.  But then he fetched a breath, looked away, looked so broken and unhappy and alone that she didn’t care what José thought. At that moment, standing slouched and unsure beneath the shuddering fluorescent diner light, she was positive he didn’t have a soul in the world who cared about him.

            “You sleep well,” she said firmly. She still didn’t step past Milt, didn’t think she could trust him that much. “You clean yourself up and we see you in the morning, hear? We’ll fix you bacon and eggs and fried potatoes and pancakes.”

            He stared at her, eyes empty and confused, and bit his lip. Then what she said seemed to have sunk in, because he looked away again and said hesitantly, “I – like bacon.” He frowned. “Don’t I?” he asked, turning his gaze back to her.

            “Everybody likes bacon,” said Milt with a smile. “We’ll lock up behind you. See you in the morning.”

            He didn’t say anything, stared at them, the echoes of fear and desperation shivering behind his bewildered expression. Milt helped D’joris into her coat and they collected the cash purse to bring to the bank drop-off. D’joris turned off the radio. It was only playing static, anyway.

            “Good night,” said Milt with forced friendliness, pushing D’joris out the back. The man still stood at the table, watching them, contemplating them, puzzled and alone.

            “Wait,” he said, when Milt’s hand hovered over the light switch. He held out the prosthetic hand. It quivered, shiny and awkward, thrust out from the frayed and dirty sleeve.

            Milt paused, then left the switch be. “Okay,” he said equably. “We’ll leave the light on.” He hesitated. D’joris wanted to _go go go_ , to leave this deadly ghost alone in the diner, but something was holding Milt back. The man’s open-mouthed stare encompassed them both, and his lips worked soundlessly, trying to force the words out.

            “Milt,” said Milt. “D’joris.” He gestured with his chin and she forced a smile.

            He stared and stared, then looked away and brushed the hair out of his face.

            “James,” he whispered.

            “James,” repeated Milt. “Okay, James. See you tomorrow.”

            Milt pushed D’joris out the back and bolted the door. They were both breathing fast as they walked up to the bank past Irving, their breath coming in quick puffs of condensation under the street lights. Cabs barreled by, honking, and the gang of youths laughing on the corner took one look at Milt’s bulk and let them pass. D’joris clutched his elbow, trying to catch her breath, but Milt marched them along on his long legs faster than her five-foot-two could keep up. When they got to the station, Milt took the bag and nudged her. “Go home.”

            “Milt,” said D’joris. “What are you doin’?”

            “I’m takin’ the bag to the drop-off,” said Milt. “Ain’t gonna make _you_ do it.”

            “I mean, what are you doin’ with that hobo?” D’joris demanded. “Lettin’ him stay in the diner!”

            “My ol’ lady,” said Milt with an abashed grin. “One of the songs the choir’s been workin’ on, she sing it every day. ‘But maybe there is more than meets the eye,” he sang, grinning a little shamefacedly.

             “ _Who's that stranger there beside you?_

_Don't be smug and don't be cruel_

_Maybe we are entertaining angels unaware_.”

          “Yeah, or devils,” snorted D’joris. “You crazy.”

          “Maybe, yeah,” admitted Milt. “But I couldn’t look into them scared, confused eyes and make him sleep in the alley, not tonight. Gon’ get down below freezin’.”

          “Well.” D’joris shook her head and pulled out her metro card. “You tell José that, then, when that crazy man tear up the diner.”

          “He won’t,” said Milt with a grin, watching her descend the stairs to the turnstiles. She turned back to him incredulously.

          “How you know?” she demanded.

          Milt shrugged. “He won’t,” he said confidently. D’joris shook her head and watched him walk away, hoping he was right.

           


	2. 2

**2**

 

            Even though the next morning was cold, wet, and dark, D’joris told Martina to wait in the back alley for Milt before going in. Martina was irritated. “Tío’s gonna kick your asses,” she said, snuggling down into her big poofy scarf. “Letting some homeless guy stay in his diner all night. You crazy.”

            “He only got one arm.”

            “Only need one arm to rob the till, mess the place up,” she complained.

            “He only needed one arm to wash all the dishes last night,” D’joris snapped. Her feet ached in the cold. She heard footsteps behind her and turned. Milt was strolling up the alley, a duffel bag in hand. He grinned.

            “Ladies,” he crooned good-naturedly. “Mornin’.”

            “I’m not going in there until I know it’s safe,” proclaimed Martina.

            “Okay, okay,” smiled Milt while D’joris unlocked the back door. “I’ll go in first.”

            The light from the back rooms streamed out into the alley when he opened the door, and Milt stepped confidently into the warm and comforting glow. They could smell coffee and bleach. D’joris and Martina waited outside until they heard Milt’s voice, deep and smooth, and the lighter, hesitant speech from the homeless guy. There didn’t seem to be any sense of urgency or alarm, so the women exchanged cautious glances, and proceeded inside.

            It was cozy and bright, and the countertops and floors gleamed despite their stains and rips. Even the gooky stuff that had accrued around the back sink faucets had been scrubbed off. The homeless guy stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the women while Milt put his things down and hung up his coat. Martina didn’t move, but D’joris gripped her courage tight and said, “Good morning, James. Sleep well?”

            He stared a half second longer than socially acceptable, and did not blink. His mouth worked a little, then he said slowly: “Duh … Jor ... Is?”

            “Yes, that’s right,” she said, feeling like she was reminding her grandmother for the thousandth time who she was. “It’s D’joris.” She took off her coat, then jumped back when he stepped quickly forward, hand outstretched to her. He hesitated, seeing her flinch, and looked away; his hand curled up in a fist.

            “May I … take your coat?” he mumbled into his collar. His hair slid over his face, obscuring it, but D’joris got the impression he was embarrassed.

            “Of course,” she said, and held it out. He glanced back at her through the curtain of hair, took the coat, then turned to Martina. She was a good foot shorter than he, but glared up at him with glossed lips pressed tight together. He curled his shoulders in and looked at the floor.

            “James,” boomed Milt, peering around the doorway. “This Martina. Take her coat too and hang it up, okay?”

            James gave an infinitesimal nod, barely enough to move his hair. Martina quickly shed her coat and handed it over, then walked around him to the rack of aprons, giving him a wide berth. She flashed a look at D’joris, mirroring her unease. D’joris watched James hang up the coats and then stand, wiping his hands down on his baggy pants, still staring at the floor. He felt her regard and glanced at her once, quickly, then looked away.

            “Made coffee,” he muttered, and turned abruptly away to the front of the diner.

            Milt was firing up the grill, and Martina turned on the lights and flipped the sign on the door to read “OPEN. D’joris looked up and down the line of tables, all lustrous over their old stains and dings, neatly squared, seats pushed in and angled correctly, condiments gathered in the center like artistic arrangements, ketchup-salt-pepper-mustard-Tabasco, each a duplicate of the other. She stepped behind the counter and noted that the blueberry pie stain had been bleached away, and the goo that collected around the seam of the Formica and the metal edging had been scrubbed up. There was the jingle of the door, and their first customers walked in, talking loudly about the Mets game and dripping on the clean floor.

            Milt leaned in close. “He even washed the front windows,” he chuckled, and tied his apron.

 

*******

 

            Martina called her uncle at her first opportunity to complain about their new busboy. Despite his cleanliness and timidity, she was determined to be suspicious. D’joris was uncomfortable too, but knew enough about PTSD to feel deeply sorry for the man. He had obviously washed his clothes in the little washer in the back reserved for the towels and aprons, and he smelled like dish soap. She tried to imagine him, naked, scrubbing the floors while his clothes dried, sponge-bathing in the sink, and wondered how many scars he had, and how long it had been since he had eaten a decent meal or slept in a warm place. Memories of her father, continually dragged from street to homeless shelter to the VA and back to the street, nagged at her, and although the man’s wild, demoralizing stare unnerved her, she was pinched by compassion.

            He ate everything they gave him, and cleaned everything they pointed out to him. Many times they didn’t even have to make known something that needed his attention; he shuffled through the diner, eyes downcast, face hidden by the stringy curtain of hair, bussing tables and sweeping. At one point, an old man in a mackinaw waved his coffee mug at him, both waitresses busy, and James wordlessly refilled the cup from the carafe. The man didn’t thank him.

            When José came in, brusque and broad-faced, his black eyes a little hard, the first thing he did was to march Milt into the back room “to talk” while Martina and D’joris saw to the customers. Martina looked vindicated, but D’joris was irritated at her. There was no need to kick a man when he was down.

            They could hear Milt’s soothing baritone, and José’s high, excited chatter, then they came to the front of the diner. James, watching the proceedings through his lank, stringy hair, looked at José and put his rag down, his face falling and shoulders slumping. It was obvious what he expected when José abruptly gestured him back.

            Neither Martina nor D’joris knew what José said to the homeless guy, because right then the lunch hour picked up, but within five minutes James was back, visibly relieved, and José watched him bus a table, his hands on his hips, lips pursed into a thoughtful frown. Martina turned to her uncle incredulously, gesturing to the homeless guy behind his back, but he just shook his head and watched. James used his prosthesis to balance the bin at his hip while his good right hand cleared the table. The bottle of bleach water, hooked on a belt loop that was already starting to fade and whiten, came out next, sprayed on the table, then reattached while the rag, tucked into his pocket and likewise lightening, wiped the table clean. The whole process took less than thirty seconds, and D’joris couldn’t help but be impressed.

            José was too, apparently, because he instructed Milt to give the guy a good lunch before he handed the shift to Roberto. Milt grinned at the homeless guy and gave him a thumbs up. James couldn’t return the gesture as his hands were full, but he looked back at Milt through his hair, and his mouth quirked up, just a little, in the corner. D’joris supposed that was as close as he could come to a smile.

            Ava, Sofia, and Roberto all came in at once, and D’joris watched Martina drag Sofia away as she tied on her apron, rattling a complaint to her in whispered Spanish. D’joris’ Spanish was bad, but she caught the words _pinche teporocho estúpido_ and _esas son mamadas_ , and Sofia rolled her eyes and muttered, “ _A la verga_ ,” to herself. D’joris shook her head and glanced at James. He made no indication that he had heard or understood, and she hoped he didn’t know what they were talking about.

            He followed her, large and dark and intimidating, into the back room, and her neck prickled all over, wondering what he was going to do and wishing he wasn’t so damn creepy. But he wordlessly took down her coat and helped her into it, his movements smooth and assured, as though he had always been this chivalrous. D’joris wondered if he could teach her son a few things.

            “Thank you, James,” she said, forcing her voice to sound friendly. James was still looking at the floor, big shoulders hunched, stringy hair over his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            The intense blue stare was unnerving enough, but coupled with the soundless twitching and chewing movement of his lips, he was alarming. D’joris deliberately smiled at him, and he glanced away, looking very confused. His right hand touched his lips, then ran his fingers halfway down his hair, staring at the sink. D’joris waited a few moments, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to say a thing to her, so she just nodded and stepped away toward the back door.

            He was at her side faster than she could blink, and her heart leaped into her mouth. But all he did was open the door and hold it for her, still staring off into space.

D’joris put him behind her as quickly as she could, and rushed to the station with a tight, apprehensive knot in her chest, glancing over her shoulder, expecting at any moment to see the dark, hulking form of him, pacing behind and watching her with that cold, turbulent stare, an ice storm bracketed by a hurricane.

 

*******

            The days crawled by, as October days in New York City normally do. It was wet and cold, and most mornings were icy, the sidewalks and alleyways slick and smelly.

            The homeless guy was not so homeless anymore. José let him sleep in the back office, even bringing a foam pad to put under the sleeping bag, and Milt gave him hand-me-down clothes to wear. He was still silent, moving like a zombie through the diner, efficient and eerie and baffling.

            Martina objected when Ava and D’joris gave him a portion of their tip money. “He jus’ going to drink it away,” she said, glancing at James, who was disappearing into the men’s room with a bucket in his right hand and a mop balanced in his prosthesis.  “You know what they’re like, those _pinche vagobondos estúpidos._ You can’t trust them.”

            “I haven’t had to clean the bathroom all week,” said Ava firmly. “He wants to suck down a fifth of cheap vodka, that’s on him. But he earned this, in my opinion.”

            Martina looked desperately at D’joris, expecting her to rethink it, but D’joris shook her head. “I’m sorry for him,” she declared. “And we don’t know what he’ll do with it. Let him alone, Martina. I know you don’t trust him, everybody knows.  But give him the benefit of the doubt. He ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

            “Yet,” said Martina darkly, and turned away. “And you don’t know what he done wrong already.”

            Ava shook her head at Martina’s back. “Probably not,” she said under her breath, glancing down at D’joris and tucking a string of grey-blond hair back into her French braid. “Kinda looks like a mass murderer, doesn’t he?” She gave a sideways smile and picked up her pen and order pad, and headed to the front.

            Martina and Sofia placed a bet with Milt that the homeless guy would spend the tip money on booze, and either disappear or  be black-out drunk when they showed up the next morning. But Milt collected their $40.00 with a slow, knowing smile. James had bought a new pair of shoes and a jacket at the Goodwill, and moved silently about the diner, his dark, disturbing efficiency mocking the two younger girls.

            The night Roberto broke José’s rules about walking the waitresses to the train station was seminal for Martina. No one was sure whether or not Roberto had told any of his skeevy homies that the girls were alone in the diner after close, but two guys had burst in the back with a knife and demanded the money bag.

            Sofia denied she wet herself, despite the stain on her skirt that Martina teased her about later, and the truth was, Martina had been just as frightened. But just as she unlocked the safe with shaking hands, her tight, panicked breath the only thing she could hear, there were two loud thumps behind her, and a gurgling groan. She turned around to see the two thieves on the floor of the back room, one still, the other writhing and bleeding, and James towering over them, eyes wide and dazed, breathing through his teeth. Sofia, crouched beside her with her hands over her head, gave a whimper, and Martina was sure that in that moment, James couldn’t distinguish them from the robbers.

            But his shoulders heaved and he lifted his chin, glanced into the corner, then back down at the two men. “You okay?” he grunted, and poked one of the men with the toe of his new sneaker.

            He vanished before the police arrived, and all the girls could tell the cops was that the one-armed scary homeless guy living in the back office had come to their rescue, and somehow had managed to put down two strapping young men armed with knives in less than ten seconds. The police didn’t appear to believe them, but at that point, neither cared.  From that night on, Roberto was out of a job, and Sofia and Martina gave James a portion of their tip money.

 

*******

 

            José went through several unsuccessful candidates for line cook, and Milt was starting to complain about the extra hours making him miss his wife’s choir performances. One afternoon, D’joris and Sofia came in for the late shift to see James himself standing at the grill, long black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, calmly frying hamburgers while Ava constructed a pastrami platter with extra pickle beside him. The smile she threw at them over her shoulder was triumphant.

 

*******

 

            By the next week, José had brought in a cot, pillow, and blankets, and unlocked the stairwell to the old studio upstairs. It was empty except for storage boxes, and there was neither a floor over the cold concrete nor curtains on the one broken window, but it did still have a working shower and a sink, stained with rust and very dirty, hooked up to the water heater. The next morning, James smelled like Dial instead of dish soap, and was clean-shaven, showing off a strong chin and high, incongruously elegant cheekbones. Martina hardly recognized him, and Sofia disturbed everyone by giving him long, contemplative looks beneath her lashes.

            There were bad days, days when the sound of a truck outside backfiring or a loud argument in the street triggered something, and James’ hands would shake. They could watch something fracture behind those ice-blue eyes, the panicked, wild look of a cornered and very dangerous animal, and during those moments they were all afraid of him, even Milt. One particularly bad episode had them huddled away from him while he paced the back room, hand in a tight fist, his lips pulled back into a snarl. When he started repeatedly throwing himself at the concrete wall by the water heater, growling and bleeding, Milt and José stepped in.

            “All right, homes, that’s enough,” José had said, and they guided him out the back door.

            He didn’t return for three days, and when he did, he looked every bit as bad as he had the night he’d first shown up. He stared at Martina blankly, smelling like urine, with dried blood crusting his mouth, his one hand opening and closing, opening and closing. Milt put Ava on the grill and led him gently upstairs to clean up.

            When he skulked back downstairs, washed but still wild, he couldn’t meet their eyes, and didn’t answer any of their careful questions. He picked up where he’d left off, cleaning the bathrooms, and when Ava tried to press her tip money into his palm, he shook her off and turned away. It took him a week before he would say anything to them, and it was testament to his long periods of silence that it took them all a full twenty-four hours to notice.

            After that, they were more cautious about letting him out of their sight, not, as D’joris explained to her worried husband, that they were afraid for themselves, but for him, raging alone in the snowy streets.

            One fine, crisp morning, police sirens screamed past, and they could all see the flinch and shiver, James’ hand shaking so badly he dropped an entire tray of dirty dishes. The noise was horrific, and sent him quivering into the back room, pressed up against the wall by the sink. Milt followed him, big hands stretched out.

            “There you go, buddy,” he said, his deep voice soft and soothing. “It’s all right. You jus’ sit there. It’s okay.”

            James slid down to the floor, covering his head with his one arm. He was shaking so hard they could hear his teeth rattle.

            “Here,” said Sofia, digging in her purse. She pulled out a little sachet. “Lavender. Breathe it in.”

            She pressed it into his prosthetic hand, and guided it to his nose. He inhaled deeply, looking up at her through his wildly disarranged hair, eyes wide and frightened.

            “Breathe like this,” said D’joris, remembering her Lamaze classes. “Breathe in, count five. Breathe out through your mouth, count five.” She crouched next to him, one plump, work-worn hand on his right arm. She could feel the thick, hard muscle tense and quake. “Breathe in, one two three four five, breathe out, one two three four five. In, one two three four five, out, one two three for five.” He stared at her, gaze locked with hers, breathing shakily in and out, rocking a little on his heels like the autistic kids D’joris watched in Sunday School. “One two three four five. One two three four five. One two three four five.”

            The front door jangled, and they heard one of the customers call for a refill. Milt pushed himself to his feet and dragged a couple of crates over, stacking them between James and the rest of the world. “You hide here, man,” he said gently. “Jus’ stay there, keep breathin’. It’ll be okay. We’re here, James. We’re here. It’ll be okay. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

            They backed out of the room, watching him watch them, unblinking and feral, lavender sachet pressed to his nose. His shoulders were hunched and he rocked back and forth, back and forth, staring at them as they left the room.

            After the dinner rush, when James hadn’t returned, Milt stepped into the back room to check on him. He was fast asleep, curled up behind the crates, his hand over his head, the lavender sachet locked in his prosthesis. Milt got a blanket from the office and covered him, and when he looked up, D’joris and Sofia were watching, wide-eyed, from the doorway. He put his finger to his lips, and the two waitresses nodded and went back to work, hearts twisted with sympathy.


	3. 3

**3**

            By Thanksgiving, James had filled out, and started walking with his shoulders back and chin up. He shaved nearly every day, and kept his thick black hair pulled back into a ponytail, or into what José called a “man bun.” He was still mostly silent, offering nothing to conversations and only speaking when spoken to. He didn’t seem capable of understanding when it was socially inappropriate to either blink or look away, and his height and demeanor put off a lot of people who came into the diner. José kept him at the grill or bussing tables, figuring if he wasn’t forced to talk, there would be less of a chance he’d scare anyone off.

            Sofia got pregnant and moved away. The new waitress, a big, handsome girl named Fabiana, didn’t question the tall busboy’s presence and took him at face value, not even noticing he slept in the back office and showered upstairs. She flirted brainlessly with him, calling him _chulo_ and _papi_ , misconstruing his ducked head and silence for being shy. D’joris, Martina, and Ava decided to let her dig her own grave there.

            One evening, Milt’s wife called in a panic about their daughter going into labor early, and he practically threw his apron and spatula at James on his way out the door, shouting that he’d send them pictures. It was an hour until close, and there was only one customer in the diner, so José told Ava to go home early, and asked D’joris if she was okay to stay until close with James. “Got to get home,” he said apologetically. “My brother’s in town and wants to go out.” He looked at James, who was methodically constructing a tuna melt platter, glowering at the sandwich as though it was about to bite his one good hand. “Homes, you walk D.J. to the train, okay?”

            James didn’t even glance at José, but gave a curt nod. One long strand of hair flopped down in front of his face, unnoticed. José grinned and shook his head, bid them goodnight, and left. They heard the door slam and bolt behind him.

            D’joris gave the customer the sandwich and a refill of Sprite. The tinny radio was softly playing her favorite station, and Ella Fitzgerald crooned and warbled her way through “Love and Kisses,” D’joris humming along. To her amusement, when she passed James on the way to the back room to get more napkins, she heard him softly singing it under his breath.

            “ _Love has bound us_

_Joy has found us_

_Planning a future divine…”_

 

            The diner was quiet, the one customer enjoying his tuna melt and reading a paperback. D’joris was in the back, unpacking boxes of new supplies. James wiped down the counter and gave the grill a quick once-over. There was no sense in cleaning it completely, because someone might come in at any time and demand an omelet or grilled cheese with fries. He let the tight, hot fire in the back of his brain burn silently, pushing it away in favor of the smell of stale coffee, bleach, and tuna fish. He could do that most days, tame the roiling blackness, shunt it off to the side like an unruly bear to snarl and snap at his back while he pushed silently through the thick oily minutes, wiping tables, cleaning toilets, washing dishes.

            The menial nature of this job pleased him. No one paid him any attention at all, and that was how he liked it. It was easier to keep the angry bear at bay without anyone’s eyes on him. Eyes woke the bear up; so did loud noises. He liked the diner best when everyone had gone home and he could sit in the bright office, curled up on his cot, breathing through the lavender sachet that Sofia had left behind.

            The door jingled and James looked up. Two men wrapped in heavy coats shuffled in, speaking in undertones to each other as they unwound their scarves and removed their hats. One of them glanced at James, who nodded and waved his prosthetic hand at them to sit wherever they liked. They stared at the hand a moment, and James put it down, then behind his back. He didn’t like it when people stared.

            D’joris had apparently not heard the front door jingle, so James picked up two plastic-coated menus and went around the counter to their table. He approached them carefully, some primal part of his brain sending warning signs. They were big men, dressed in suits that seemed to barely contain them, rolls of fat folding over the backs of their collars, garish gold rings on their fingers. They were still speaking in undertones. James handed over the menus. They looked up at him, their eyes unfriendly and condescending. One of them snatched a menu out of his hand. The other let his fall to the table and stared at James aggressively.

            The bear in the back of James’ head snarled, and James looked away. _Quiet, quiet,_ he told himself. He could hear Milt’s low, soothing voice. _It’ll be okay, man, everything’s gonna be fine._ It would be fine. These men were probably just jerks. He could ignore jerks.

            Then one of them said to the other, “Retarded hobo,” only it wasn’t in English, and James could still understand.

            What language was that? He turned slowly and walked away, straining to hear them. The other man chuckled grossly and responded, “Greasy idiot. Will probably burn our food.”

            He knew that language. Why did he know it? It wasn’t Spanish; he heard José, Martina, and Fabiana speak that all the time, though they had no idea he understood. And it wasn’t French, because Ava had been taking an elective in French and sometimes listened to her Rosetta Stone tapes when the diner was closed. James understood that, too, though he was at a loss to remember why.

            He shushed the bear and listened hard. He oughtn’t to have been able to hear them that clearly from the grill, but he knew without knowing that his hearing was better than everyone else’s. It didn’t bother him; it was just one more thing that made him a freak, made him different. Sometimes it was useful.

            “So why are we here? This isn’t our usual diner.”

            “I wanted to talk to you, away from Anatoly and Leonid, those assholes. They would sell us out if they could.”

            “Two-timing idiots. They should know this will lead to their deaths. No one double-crosses us.” The big, pale man contemplated the menu. “I think I will get pastrami. You are sure this place isn’t bugged?”

            “No, it’s clean. Not even on the boss’s radar. No one will know about the files.”

            James listened harder. He knew this language; he _knew_ it. Why did he know it? He kept one ear tuned for D’joris in the back. He could hear her humming and unpacking boxes. Better to keep her back there. There was something about these two men that made James uneasy.

            “They’ll know when the information disappears.”

            “Hey, you want to go up against our new friends? I don’t. I’m getting the ham sandwich. I’ll tell them to make the fries fresh. You want fries?”

            “Yes, sure. I don’t like this deal. I don’t think we can trust them.”

            “I’ve worked with them before. Give them what they want and don’t ask questions. They’ll leave us alone after they pay us.”

            “And Grigory?”

            “He can go to hell. He’ll never find out. Why do you think I had Matvei cook the books? We are invisible.” He put the menu down. “I wonder if their coffee is fresh?”

            They fell silent as D’joris scurried back into the front. “Sorry, gentlemen,” she said briskly, taking out her pad. “You know what you want?”

            James kept his head turned away from them, listening hard as they ordered their food and demanded fresh fries. He took the ticket and started to put the food together. “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee,” D’joris said easily, loud enough for the two men to hear. They ignored her and kept speaking, and James listened, his hand and prosthesis working automatically.

            “When will we get the data?”

            “Day after tomorrow, when our friend in Washington gets the information. We need to be sure the files are uncorrupted and sent over Vasily’s secure lines.”

            “He’d better not betray us.”

            “If he does, we kill him. Or Hydra does.”

            James’ brain turned inside-out a moment, and everything went white. These men were speaking Russian, and they were talking about selling intel to Hydra.

            _Quiet, quiet, quiet_ he told himself, wishing he could run. Every nerve in his body was screaming to get out, grab D’joris and flee. But he stacked the pastrami platter and fried the potatoes and put together a ham sandwich, his hand only shaking a little as he dug out two kosher dills and put them on the plates. D’joris was sitting at the counter, rolling flatware into napkins and humming along to the radio, Lena Horne this time.

            “ _Stormy weather_ ,” Horne crooned, and James heartily agreed. He could see Horne’s face, beautiful, smiling through the smoke of the speakeasy, her green gown glittering in the low light, the foreign taste of contraband on his teenage tongue. And beside him, his friend, his brother, shifting bony shoulders and looking around awkwardly, turning the dram glass in his thin hands. “Relax, Stevie,” James smiled. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

            “But Bucky, how do you _know_?” hissed Steve, and Bucky – James – laughed.

            _Everything’s gonna be all right._

“ _I’m weary all the time, so weary all the time,”_ smiled Horne _._

            “One petabyte for two million, not bad,” said the darker man. James looked at the man’s side, the suit coat pulled tight over the thick fat body. There was a lumpy shape there that was not fat. James knew very well what it was. He even knew how it would feel in his hand, cold and sleek, then hot, smelling of oil and smoke. “Stark tech, right?”

            “That’s what the Hydra agent said,” agreed the pale man. “Jamieson said Stark reworked the guns on the jets, supposed to be even more deadly, faster.”

            “Jamieson, he’s the Pentagon mole?”

            “Yes, he’s been Hydra for a couple of years now. Vasily’s handler recruited him.”

            “Where the hell is that dumb black whore? I need more coffee.”

            James’ insides flared angrily. D’joris was most definitely not worthy of that pejorative. He had killed for lesser slights. But not today.

            He carefully placed the platters of food on a tray and balanced it with his hand. He wasn’t going to let D’joris anywhere near those men, not anywhere near. His hand ought to have been shaky, but for some reason he was calm. They glanced over at him, dismissing him instantly.

            “Oh look, it’s the retard,” said the pale one casually, and his associate laughed.

            James put the tray down on the table, held the edge with his prosthetic, and put the plates in front of the men, deliberately giving the orders to the wrong one. He could feel their disdain, and one of them said in Russian, “Fucking retard.” He kept his eyes on the floor and returned to the grill. D’joris smiled a thank-you at him, and he picked up the coffee pot and ambled back over, careful to hide his eyes behind a stringy fall of hair, slipping out of its restraining pony tail.

            “More?” he muttered under his breath, standing at the table.

            “Yes,” said one of the men shortly. He poured, being sure to slosh a little over the side of the mug. The man snorted in disgust and James pretended to not hear. “Look at this idiot,” the man said in Russian. “Even this job is too hard for him.”

            They laughed. James retreated to the grill again, anger and fear dancing up his spine. He wiped the counter and the grill, turned off the fryer, and listened. The men spoke further, discussing women and prostitutes and diamonds and hockey while they ate. James was very aware of the handgun under the pale man’s jacket.

            D’joris finished rolling the flatware and pushed the bin towards James. It was too heavy for her to carry to the back, so he picked it up with one hand, balancing it on his hip, put it away while D’joris started loading the day’s laundry into the washing machine. James hurried back out front. He didn’t want D’joris to take their money. He didn’t want her near them at all.

            They were sitting at the table, staring insolently around themselves, sneering. James wanted to tell them that if they thought that little of the diner, there was no sense in ever coming back. But something told him that if they came back, they would talk, and if they talked, he could listen. He shuffled up to them, eyes on his shoes, check in his fist.

            He dropped it on the table and stood and waited, looming over them like the monster he was. They stared up at him in annoyance, but pulled out their sleek Coach wallets and threw a couple of twenties on the table. James picked them up and shuffled back to the register. D’joris stood there, looking at him, puzzled. He handed her the money, then glanced surreptitiously back at the men. They were getting up, collecting their coats and hats and scarves. When James heard the jingle of the register, he turned back to D’joris. She had followed his gaze, frowning, obviously picking up that he was uncomfortable. She took the men’s change out of the register and James snatched it from her. Her eyes widened up at him, and he shook his head, just a little. She nodded, glanced at the men again, and called, “You want your change, gentlemen?”

            “Keep it,” grunted the dark man. When he swung around to pick up his hat from the rack, James saw the dark, shiny curve of a holster beneath his suit jacket. He wasn’t sure if D’joris had seen it or not. In Russian, the man added, “Buy yourself a pretty face, fat black whore,” and his friend guffawed.

            “You gentlemen have a nice evening,” she called equably. James was glad she hadn’t understood them.

            The door jangled shut behind them. James turned slightly, watching from beneath his hair. They fussed together under the awning, lighting cigarettes, then laughing flagged a cab and got in. James and D’joris were both quiet until the cab pulled away. James went to the door, locked it, and turned the sign to read “CLOSED.”

            “Didn’t like ‘em, huh?” asked D’joris cautiously.

            James shook his head. He collected his dish bin and bussed the table quickly while D’joris cashed out. They locked the money in the safe, turned out the front lights, and James washed the last remaining dishes while D’joris put the wet, clean laundry in the dryer. They worked in silence as usual, but D’joris seemed troubled, James’ unease bleeding into her.

            When they were finished, James went through his mindless gentlemanly routine of helping D’joris into her coat and holding her purse for her while she pulled on her gloves. When he unbolted the back door she said gently, “James, honey, put on your jacket. It’s cold outside.”

            James shrugged into Milt’s old blue jacket and opened the door. He looked out first, up and down the alley, up to the windows above them, then satisfied, he allowed D’joris out. He bolted the door and offered his elbow to her. The first time he’d walked her to the train and done that, she had laughed uncomfortably, unsure what to do, but now she knew, and tucked her little hand in the crook of his right arm. He had to fight to keep his strides short so she could keep up, but walked her all the way to the station and watched her down the stairs to the turnstiles. She glanced back up at him with a wave and a smile. He didn’t smile back, but then again, she probably didn’t expect him to.

 

*******

 

            James did not like to think about anything that happened before he showed up at the diner. Like the bear, he deliberately pushed it back. Memory was usually his enemy, throwing him into panics or rages, confusing him and making people either run away or shoot at him. The diner was comfortable and safe. He was warm and fed and busy, and everyone seemed to accept his silence. The little cash that José paid him was inconsequential, both in amount and meaning. James had everything he needed between the plate glass entryway and back’s greasy green doors. He had a little roll of bills, about $400, enough to get him out of town in a hurry if events warranted it.

            He wondered if they did now.

            James had good reasons to be dismissive of anything Tony Stark or the Pentagon wanted, but he was even less a fan of Hydra and the Russian mob. He rocked back and forth on his cot, the little lavender sachet pressed to his nose, breathing carefully. In one two three four five, out one two three four five, in one two three four five, out one two three four five. He usually avoided thinking about the current political situation, wanting to stay as far the hell away from SHIELD, Hydra, or any other government agencies. In his extensive experience, any contact with any of them, regardless of origin or philosophy, ended horribly for him.

            He was just starting to figure out that he could be just James, and that it was okay. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want a last name. He didn’t want a title. He just wanted to be James the busboy.

            He rocked and breathed and rocked and breathed, staring at the office wall, garishly lit by the desk lamp. There was a picture of _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_ and a candle under it with _Al Sagrado Corazón de Jesus_ printed in garish colors on the front. He wondered if the votive would provide him any comfort if he lit it. His mother had not approved of anything Popish, but he couldn’t remember if she’d had a specific reason for insisting her son be a Protestant. James had loved St. Brendan’s, and had spent several months attending, trying to get Marian to notice him – Marian – Marian Flannery, that had been her name.

            A rare, fond smile quirked up the corners of James’ mouth. Steve had developed a crush on Marian, too. That had put an end to it, as far as James had been concerned, even though Marian acted like she was softening up to him in the end. So he’d slept with her older sister to deflect her interest, grinning when she slapped him hard, and walked away without a regret.

            James was good at walking away. Not having regrets was a little more difficult nowadays.

            He pushed the memories aside and closed his eyes. Steve’s cell phone. Steve’s thumb, scrolling through contacts. Checking his email. A private address, between friends, marked “Tony.”

            No one at the diner knew James had eidetic memory. Like his unusual hearing and his physical strength, it wasn’t that useful in a diner. But it might serve him well in this case.

            James had stopped rocking back and forth a while ago, hadn’t even noticed. He got up off the creaky cot and dug out the Yellow Pages from the bottom drawer of José’s desk. He flipped through it, skimmed his prosthesis down the list of local libraries, frowned at the entry beside it. _Free public internet access!_ it said.

            James got up to fold the laundry. He would get no sleep tonight.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: the antagonists introduced in chapters 3, 4, and 5 use some pretty vile language. It's nothing I haven't heard before, on me or my friends, to our faces or behind our backs, but it might be hard to read. Hugs and kisses to anyone who's had to be on the receiving end.

**4**

 

            José stared at James in amazement when he asked for the day off. James _never_ took days off. He was a constant, looming, dark presence, creepy and reliable.

            “Yeah, sure, homes,” José said, nonplused. “Whatever you need, man.”

            James nodded his thanks. He’d already cleaned the diner top to bottom, prepped the veggies and the grill, made the coffee, and set fresh toilet paper in the bathrooms. Technically speaking, he had already put in four hours. He would not feel guilty at all.

            He slipped out into the alleyway, eyes tracking cautiously. He had grown used to feeling safe in the diner, but the street was always an unknown factor. He disliked being seen in public, constantly afraid of someone noticing him, speaking to him, recognizing him. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, nestled his chin into the old scratchy scarf he’d gotten from José’s wife Anita, and walked quickly through the busy streets, eyes down, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Fortunately, the library was only a twenty minute walk away. He could have gotten there faster if he’d taken the bus, but he didn’t want to risk being in a moving, enclosed vehicle with a group of civilians.

            The library rose above him, steepled and imposing. It was teeming with people, students and retirees and researchers. Any one of these people could recognize him, sound the alarm, turn him in. The entire building was an unknown factor. Where were the fire escapes, the elevator shafts? Were there security cameras? If so, were the tapes stored? Were the emergency exits alarmed? Was there roof access? What about security guards?

            James hesitated at the bottom step, his right hand trembling on the rail. Was this worth the risk? Did he really care if Stark and Hydra got entangled? He gripped the front railing tight, feeling a little unsteady. The events surrounding Steve’s break with Tony Stark were still fuzzy in his brain, scrambled by cryo and decades of EST, but he knew for a fact that things would not have degenerated to such a point had he not been a factor.

            Guilt was a great motivator.

            He mounted the steps and slipped inside, trying to hide his height and girth in the crowd. The metal detector gave him pause, but then he remembered his prosthetic arm would set it off anyway, and in his experience, disabled people were never searched. His butterfly blade was safe, tucked in his pocket. Just in case.

            He found his way to the computers, row after row of bland tan boxes, and waited his turn until one was free. He sat biting his lip, wondering how to proceed.

            The first thing he’d need was an email address. That was the work of five minutes. He overthought the name and was mildly embarrassed by calling himself Portnoy Mulligan Patak, but smiled to think of Steve laughing about it.

            He conjured up Stark’s private email address from his memory and started to type one-handed, missing his old arm. So many things were more difficult than they should have been. The prosthetic hand, hooked and a little bent, was too obvious to leave visible, so he tucked it up into his sleeve, hoping no one noticed the knobby imperfections of his left arm through the jacket.

            STARK

            WATCH FOR FILE TRANSFER INTERCEPTION TOMORROW

            ONE PETABYTE FOR TWO MILLION DOLLARS

            YOUR PLANS FOR THE JET UPGRADE ARE IN DANGER

            HYDRA, RUSSIAN MOB WORKING TOGETHER ON THIS

            KEY NAMES: ANATOLY, LEONID, TWO TIMERS

            GRIGORY, UNKNOWN, NOT INVOLVED

            MATVEI, FINANCES, TWO SETS OF BOOKS

            VASILY, SECURE LINE FOR FILE TRANSFER

            JAMIESON IN PENTAGON, MOLE FOR HYDRA, RECRUITED BY VASILY’S HANDLER

            TWO UNKNOWN MEN SPEAKING IN UNBUGGED AREA, OVERHEARD BY UNDERCOVER RUSSIAN-SPEAKING FORMER AGENT VERIFIES, BOTH MEN ARMED AND DANGEROUS. LARGE, FAT, ONE DARK, ONE PALE. GOLD RINGS ON PINKIES WITH RELIGIOUS OR FRATERNAL SYMBOLS. BLACK LEATHER HOLSTER CONTAINING UNKNOWN LARGE HANDGUN ON DARK ONE. PALE ONE KEEPS GLOCK .45 UNDER SUIT JACKET. SMOKERS. FLUENT IN ENGLISH.

            James hesitated. That was really all he knew. Should he add anything else? “I’m sorry I was brainwashed into killing your parents and subsequently destroyed your friendship with the best man in the world, it sucks to be both of us, please don’t kill me”? He toyed with the idea of trading his intel for a new arm, but shook it off. No way Stark would go for that. Or if he did, he would somehow infuse it with ricin and laugh while James was slowly and tortuously poisoned.

            James simply signed it FORMER BLACK OPS and hoped that would be impressive enough for Tony Stark to pay attention. And if he didn’t? Well, Hydra and SHIELD were blowing each other up every day anyway. All James really wanted to avoid was collateral damage.

            He sent the email, erased his browser history, and for good measure turned off the computer. It would piss off whomever was waiting for him, but he didn’t care enough about the world around him to take the risk. He’d done quite enough.

            He pulled up his hood as soon as he exited the library and walked quickly back to the diner. He hated feeling this exposed.

 

*******

 

            It didn’t matter how many months had gone by. It was awkward, dammit. Probably always would be. Years would pass, she would be an old woman, and Tony Stark’s presence would still make her uncomfortable. Pepper sighed and re-read Tony’s email, a knot of worry in her gut. She hated government military contracts for this very reason. Industrial espionage was bad enough in the private sector.

            “Well?” said Tony anxiously. He paced, back and forth, back and forth across her expansive office floor. “Legit? Not legit? Someone pulling my leg? Damn Russians. Except Romanoff. No, fuck that, Romanoff too.” He bit his nails. “Goddamn Hydra.”

            “Tony, I’m not a spy,” she said as patiently as she could. “I can’t tell if it’s legitimate. Let me show it to Maria.”

            “Oh, god, Agent Hill,” Tony muttered.

            “Yes, Tony, Agent Hill,” said Pepper stiffly. Her friendship with Maria had always sat wrong with Tony. Not that it was any of his business anymore. “She knows Hydra better than I do. And she’ll be able to track who sent it.”

            “I already tracked who sent it,” said Tony, angry. “I’m not an idiot, Pepper. I’m not gonna read an email from some asshat with three unrelated names and not try to figure out who the hell it is.”

            “So?” said Pepper, as patiently as she could. “Who sent it?”

            “Public library IP, Manhattan, newly created email address,” muttered Tony irritably. “No cameras, no one remembers. Library was full of students. No way to track it.”

            “Probably why whoever it was used the library,” mused Pepper. She reread the email. “Black Ops. Hm.”

            “My god, there are retired and discharged Black Ops guys running all over New York City,” Tony complained. “No way to tell they’re SHIELD or Hydra or none of the above until they blow you up. Or paid mercenaries. I don’t mind those. Just pay them more, boom, they’re on your side.”

            “Tony,” said Pepper, fixing him with a severe look.

            “What?” he demanded, spreading his arms. “A man can’t hedge his bets?”

            “I’m calling Maria,” said Pepper, picking up the phone.

            “My cue to fuck off,” snapped Tony, and he left without saying goodbye.

            Pepper sighed. It didn’t matter how long it was. Her heart still hurt.

 

*******

 

            Two days later, Maria called Pepper with her report.

            “I don’t know who your informant is, but he was dead on,” she said. “Frank Jamieson at the Pentagon is definitely dirty. We’re keeping him in the dark until he can show his hand, show us how much intel he’s already sold.”

            “And the particle beam weapons designs?”

            “Safe. The file transfer blew up midway. We made sure the data was hopelessly corrupted. Thank god for a heads-up. Tell Tony to rest easy. And to quit selling his shit to the military, god. I mean, what did he expect?”

            “I don’t know,” said Pepper, rubbing her eyes. “It’s the Accords. He’s contractually obligated to hand over a certain percentage of R&D. I hate it, Ree.”

            “My god, I bet you do, Pepper,” sighed Maria. “I’m so sorry things have turned out like this.”

            “Me too,” said Pepper. She hesitated. “Have you heard anything from … our mutual friend?”

            “Not lately,” said Maria. “He was cat-sitting for a while. Now I think he’s falconing in Asia.”

            “Got it,” said Pepper, a little tersely. “Any luck tracing the email?”

            “Nope. Like Tony said, no way to find out who used that particular email address at that particular library. The only thing we can hope is that he returns to it. We’ve got eyes in place, not just at that particular library, but all libraries in Manhattan. If there’s any more communication, we should get the guy.”

            “If only to thank him.”

            “Or bring him in,” admitted Maria. “I wouldn’t mind having a Russian-speaking retired Black Ops on my team.”

            “Be careful what you wish for,” cautioned Pepper. Maria laughed.

            “I’ll tell Natasha you said that,” she rejoined cheerfully, and hung up.

 

*******

 

            The next time the two Russians came into the diner, it was midday, and Ava and Milt were having a cheerful argument about how to make a proper broccoli cheddar soup. James lingered by the door, bussing the table behind them more slowly than he’d ever bussed in his life, and overheard them calling Ava a fat ugly lesbian and talk about shoving broken vodka bottles up her vagina. It was all he could do to keep himself from snapping their necks right there.

            He offered Ava to go out and smoke while he took their order and delivered their food. Milt gave him an odd look, then narrowed his eyes at the two Russians. When he met James’ gaze again, he gave an imperceptible nod. James nodded back, picked up Ava’s pad, and shuffled back to the table.

            “Oh my god, this fucking retard again,” said the pale one casually.

            “He needs to be drowned, put him out of his misery,” agreed his companion.

            James mumbled, “Take your order?” while staring hard at their jewelry. He recognized the Tsar cross with the skull, the fraternal order of one of the older branches of the mob, and a beluga with its tail in its mouth, a successful gang that ran guns and drugs from Petrograd to Moskva. The pale one wore a second ring with a symbol James didn’t recognize, an eagle carrying a naked woman.

            The pale man ordered French onion soup and a Coke. The dark one wanted a hamburger, cooked well, with pickled beets and fresh French fries. “Make sure they are fresh, you hear me?” he demanded, spinning the menu off the table onto the floor, and they laughed as James bent slowly to pick it up.

            He hid his gaze behind his hair. There was the outline of a switchblade in the pale one’s pocket, and an ankle holster on the dark one’s left foot. James retreated without a word, listening hard.

            “Pyotr, Vas is fucked,” said the dark one. “You hear what Hydra did?”

            “He didn’t need his head, the idiot,” said Pyotr scornfully. “Double-crossing us like that.”

            “He swore he didn’t,” said the dark one. “Anatoly’s wife is collecting money for his mother.”

            “Fuck his mother, fuck Anatoly’s fat bitch wife,” said Pyotr. “If she’d raised Vas to be anything but a two-timing double agent, maybe she wouldn’t be in the poor house now. She won’t last long, anyway. Doesn’t she have cancer?”

            His companion’s reply was lost while James bussed the tables in the back. When the order was up, James balanced the tray on his shoulder and brought it over. The two men were speaking in low voices, but he could clearly hear the one called Pyotr say, “Our last chance, Matvei said, because Kuznetsov is getting suspicious. If it doesn’t work this time, Hydra will start collecting heads instead of files.”

            “Tuesday, then. Jamieson had better come through this time.” He looked up at James and sneered. “About time,” he said in English. “It better not be cold.”

            James did not reply, just stared at the floor. As he shuffled away, Pyotr called, “Hey! Another drink! Now!”

            “I’ll take it,” said Ava cheerfully, bustling in and taking the tray from James. “Thank you, James.”

            “I’ve got it,” said James, his voice low. He put himself between Ava and the two Russians. “Take care of someone else.”

            “James, I – “ began Ava, looking a little peeved, then she caught Milt’s eye and went a little pale. “Oh! Okay,” she said, forcing her voice to sound cheerful and unconcerned. “Just … share the tips, okay, sweetie?”

            James glanced at Ava quickly through his hair, giving her round, sunny face a hesitant smile. He didn’t know why, but he liked how she called him “sweetie.” It always made his heart feel warm.

            He ducked behind the counter to get the pitcher of Coke. Milt leaned in close and murmured, “Don’t like them two?”

            “Nope,” said James grimly. “Let me handle them.”

            “You got it, man,” said Milt quietly. James could feel Milt’s eyes on him as he returned to the Russians’ table.

            “This fucking retard needs to die,” said Pyotr as James refilled his glass. “Ivan,  we need to send Jamieson’s access codes directly to Vasily’s handler. You remember them?”

            “Forty-five, milk, seven hundred seventy five, Alpha Alpha, point oh two five, trout, spur, Omega Psi Epsilon, one million five, Faulkner, seventeen point two four, Zealand, two hundred thousand fifty seven point oh two oh five, shard,” said Ivan carelessly.

            “Good memory,” said Pyotr, impressed. “This doesn’t work, then the handler’s fucked. And Jamieson too, I guess.”

            “The price we pay for business,” agreed Ivan.

 

            James slipped into the library twenty minutes before close. Milt, Ava, and Fabiana looked surprised when he announced he had an errand to run, but no one stopped him. He had already cleaned the bathrooms and finished the second set of dishes.

            This library was farther away, but James didn’t want to risk going to the same library twice. As he sat, hand trembling, at the terminal, letting his lank hair hide his face from the peeved librarian who wanted to lock up, he agonized over setting up a new email address. _No time,_ he thought, his heart in his throat, and began to painstakingly poke at the keyboard, missing his metal arm for the millionth time.

            STARK

            TWO RUSSIANS OVERHEARD NAMED IVAN AND PYOTR

            WEARING RINGS WITH SYMBOLS SKULL AND TSAR CROSS, CIRCLING BELUGA, EAGLE WITH NAKED WOMAN

            SECOND ATTEMPT TO ACQUIRE STARK TECH, USING CODE# AS FOLLOWS:

            45

            MILK

            775

            (GREEK NOMENCLATURE ALPHA ALPHA) A A

            .025

            TROUT

            SPUR

            (GREEK NOMENCLATURE OMEGA PSI EPSILON) Ω ψ E

            1,000,005

            FAULKNER

            17.24

            ZEALAND

            200,057.0205

            SHARD

 

            TO BE SENT TO VASILY’S HANDLER AT HYDRA ON TUESDAY

            KUZNETZOV SUSPICIOUS

            FORMER BLACK OPS

            He shut the computer down and got up, his back to the librarian, and hurried out.

 

*******

 

            “Dammit,” breathed Pepper.

            “Yeah, no shit,” said Tony tightly. His arms were folded across his chest and he paced back and forth in front of Pepper’s desk.

            “Where is he getting his intel?” asked Maria over the speaker. “It sounded at first as though he was getting it second-hand. This sounds first-hand.”

            “Hill, I need all your intel on anyone named Kuzetnzov, or these Pyotr and Ivan guys,” demanded Tony, pulling out his phone and starting to scroll through his contacts.

            “Need to know, Stark” said Maria a little stiffly. “And you don’t need to know. Not anymore.”

            Tony face darkened with anger, and he abruptly smacked Pepper’s desk with his hand, dislodging her kinetic sculpture, and sending her cell phone rattling.

            “Tony,” said Pepper sharply, as though she were scolding a child.

            “This is what happens when you reduce yourself to nothing more than one of Ross’ assets,” Maria continued, her voice cold. “You’re taking a back seat on this one, Stark. I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Pepper.”

            The line went dead. “I’m getting pretty tired of being treated like a tool,” said Tony. He wouldn’t meet Pepper’s eye, which irritated her.

            “Then stop acting like one,” she said. Her voice was just as cold as Maria’s had been.

            Tony went very still for a moment, his eyes fixed blankly on the upper left hand corner of her office. Then he wheeled around, stalked out, and slammed the door.

            Pepper took a deep breath. Things between them had never been this bad, and Pepper, though she public proclaimed herself “over” the breakup, was privately dismayed to think that they could never even recapture their fragile friendship. It hurt her.

            She tried to put her mental CEO suit back on that always seemed to be stripped away in Tony’s presence. She would have to take measures to ensure none of Stark Industries’ proprietary data had been compromised. She wished “Former Black Ops,” whoever it was, could infiltrate her company as easily as some diner in Manhattan. It would be nice to have a ghost on her side for once.

            Neither Tony nor Maria had mentioned who was sending the mysterious emails. Maybe they just didn’t know yet.


	5. 5

**5**

 

            The next time Pyotr and Ivan came in, everyone tensed. They didn’t know why James was so adamant that none of the waitresses approach them, but like Milt said, “If he got his reasons, I ain’t gonna question it.” James knew they didn’t have confidence in his sanity, and he couldn’t blame them – most of the time he was a wholly foreign factor, in action and in reaction. But at least they trusted him right now.

            He wished he had a gun.

            Pyotr and Ivan did not look very happy. James took that to be a good sign. He pottered around the front door behind their table with a rag and a bottle of Windex, and listened to them mutter to each other.

            “Fuck, fuck, son of a whore!” hissed Pyotr. “We’re fucked, we’re as fucked as Vas was.”

            “Think Grigory sold us out to Kuz?”

            “Kuznetzov still doesn’t know, at least I hope he doesn’t. Fuck that Potts bitch, she went right to the Pentagon. How did she get our codes?”

            “Jamieson, I bet. He’s in the wind. His handler was found strung up in his house today. That’ll keep the heat off of us.” Ivan turned and threw a balled-up napkin at James’ head. “Hey! You! We’re ready to order. And get us our coffee.”

            James rose slowly. He knew Milt and Martina were watching him. He pulled the pad out of his apron, slowly clicked his pen to life, and stared down at the table. He could see Ivan and Pyotr’s hands, meaty and big, spread out, their gold rings glinting. There was the outline of a gun in Pyotr’s breast pocket.

            “Turkey club, fresh hot bacon,” snapped Ivan. “I want it hot, very hot, not left over from breakfast. And fries, make them fresh or I won’t eat them.”

            “Borscht and coffee,” said Pyotr. As James painstakingly wrote on the pad, Pyotr said in Russian, “Stupid brain-dead retard! I swear to god, I will cut his throat myself.”

            “Don’t waste your blade on this useless piece of shit,” Ivan answered.

            James pretended to clean out the grease trap while Milt put their food together, and Martina didn’t even move to pick up the tray. James balanced it on his shoulder and took it to the Russians’ table. They were speaking angrily, their faces flushed.

            “I say we do it tonight,” Ivan said. “We know she’s heading back to Los Angeles tomorrow morning and will take the company limo to the airfield. Only one bodyguard. We can overpower him easily.”

            “If we kill her, Stark will just take over again. We can’t have that,” protested Pyotr. “I say we bring her back to Anatoly’s house.” He gave a low, ugly chuckle. “And have a little fun with that cunt.”

            James put the borscht down in front of Pyotr, his skin crawling as Ivan laughed. “I say we invite the boys, we all have some fun, just like we did with backstabbing Orlov’s whore sister. That Potts bitch deserves a lesson. I can give her a big one, too, right up that skinny ass.”

            They both laughed. James folded the tray under his arm and looked down at them, his eyes hooded. How easy it would be to kill them, kill them now, right here in the diner. They would more than deserve it. And he could do it with one hand tied behind his back, too. He smiled, already tracking out in his mind the method he would take.

            Then he heard Martina laugh at something a customer said, and he snapped back. No. He couldn’t.

            “Break her damn jaw,” Pyotr was chuckling around his borscht. “Shove my cock down that throat, make her choke on it. That’ll teach that slut to meddle in men’s affairs.”

            They guffawed together, nasty, brutal. James’ right hand curled up into a fist, then opened slowly. _Everything’s gonna be fine,_ he said to himself.

 

*******

 

            Milt was not surprised when James ducked out after the lunch rush, but stood at the grill, watching him go, thoughtful, not suspicious, but definitely questioning. Martina and D’joris were just glad the Russian men were gone. “Next time, put Lysol in their borscht,” D’joris suggested to Milt. “Maybe then they won’t come back.”

            It took James almost an hour to walk to a new library, but he didn’t want to risk either of the other ones. He had never met the famous Pepper Potts of Stark Industries, but any woman who was capable of breaking a Stark’s heart was categorically worth saving. Thinking about the horrible things the Russians were planning to do to her made the bile rise in James’ throat. He wished he could put them down himself, kill them all one by one, slowly, painfully. He flexed his right hand. It would be so easy …

            The memory of D’joris’ gentle hands, Milt’s generosity, and Martina’s happy laugh brought him up short. He wasn’t that person anymore. He couldn’t be. Even a one-armed assassin was one assassin too many.

            He found the first available terminal and logged into his fake email account. There was, to his surprise, a message in his Inbox. It was from Stark.

            _Thank you, mystery man_

            James made a face. Figured Stark would assume he was a man, that a woman wouldn’t have been capable of this. He really was worse than his father. Then again, Tony Stark had never met Peggy. She would have disabused him of his notions pretty damn quick.

            James hit REPLY and hunt-and-pecked an answer.

            STARK

            DON’T THANK ME YET

            PEPPER POTTS IN DANGER

            LIMO TO BE WAYLAID ON WAY TO AIRPORT TOMORROW AM

            ABDUCTION, PHYSICAL ASSAULT, VIOLENT GANG RAPE, FORCED FELLATIO, SODOMY PLANNED

            PYOTR IVAN ANATOLY POSS MORE

            HEAVILY ARMED AND SADISTIC

            James paused, then, thinking of Stark’s broken, angry face, added:

            I KNOW YOU STILL LOVE HER

            PROTECT HER

            FORMER BLACK OPS

            Satisfied, James rebooted the terminal, the knot in his stomach unwinding a little. He was relieved, and in such a hurry to get back to the diner before dinner rush, that he didn’t notice the funny little man sitting in one of the easy chairs in Modern Classics, watching him over the edge of a copy of Crime and Punishment.

 

*******

 

            Pepper was white and shaking.

            “Oh, my god,” said Maria.

            She was actually in Pepper’s office this time. The contents of this third email had alarmed even Maria, and she was taking no chances with her friend’s wellbeing.

            “Where is Tony?” she demanded.

            “I, I don’t know,” Pepper stammered, still looking a little wild around the eyes. “He just forwarded it to me, and I can’t get ahold of him.”

            “Goddammit.” Maria pulled up a program on her tablet. “And he’s probably wearing one of his out-of-spec, untraceable suits.”

            “He can’t,” protested Pepper. “He signed the Accords. He’s not allowed.”

            “Right, like that’s going to stop him,” said Maria dryly. “Not where you’re concerned. My god.” She shook her head. “Well, I’ve got a contingent of twenty of my best agents on their way up right now. I’m not leaving you alone for a second. And I don’t think you should head to L.A. tomorrow. Give it a few days until we find these guys. Telecommute. The company will be fine.”

            “The board of directors,” whispered Pepper faintly. She reread the email and sat back abruptly, hand on her forehead. “I’m going to be sick,” she declared. “Ree, I’ve been called a lot of things. I’ve had men say pretty horrible things to me, both before and after I took over here. But this – “ She gestured to her screen. “Oh, my god. I’ve never been threatened with something this bad.”

            “Haven’t you?” asked Maria, more kindly than she felt. “Well, then, Pepper, you’re one of the lucky ones.” While Pepper digested this, Maria’s tablet chimed. She glanced down at it. “Got the ghost!” she exclaimed, her voice tense. “They’re just sending the video feed now. Check it out.”

            She swiped the blurry, shaky hand-held feed to Pepper’s larger screen, and the two women watched silently as a bright, airy library computer room appeared. The image was grainy, but otherwise clear enough to see detail. There was a bank of computer terminals to the left, and several shelves of books on the right. The door was straight ahead.

            They waited. People came and went, passing close to the camera, or wandering out of its view, uninteresting and unimportant. But then the camera steadied, and they watched the dark, looming figure of a man sidle hesitantly into the room.

            He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a sweatshirt hood over his face which he pushed back, looking around, his eyes wide and a little anxious; they darted to and fro, measuring, seeking, assessing. One hand shifted restlessly in his pocket.

            “Gun?” whispered Pepper.

            Maria shook her head. “Probably a knife, if anything,” she said. “But how did he get it past the metal detector - OH.”

            Both women stared. The man’s hood had slipped back. Though clean-cut, with long dark hair pulled back, they both recognized that pale, chiseled face, the sharp-eyed stare and frowning red mouth. Tension radiated off his stiff shoulders, and they could see the artificial swing of a prosthetic arm through the jacket.

            “Holy shit,” breathed Maria.

            “Is that – ?” Pepper couldn’t finish her sentence.

            “I’d bet what’s left of my SHEILD pension,” said Maria grimly. “Oh, my god. The ghost himself.” She hunched her shoulders up a little. The man was sitting at the computer, typing with his right hand while the left sat, stiff, metal, curved, on the table beside him. Every once in a while he would look around, trying to make sure he wasn’t being watched. At one point he seemed to stare directly at the camera, and all the hair on Pepper’s neck stood up straight. Steel-blue, ice-cold, ten-seconds-to-crazy eyes darted and flicked past them, then he turned back to the computer.

            Maria watched the time stamp, and Pepper watched the Winter Soldier, fascinated. So this was the man who had torn Tony’s and Steve’s friendship apart. This was the man who had murdered Howard and Maria Stark. This was the man who had shot Natasha through, just to get to his mark. This was the deadliest assassin in the world, even denuded of his left arm, unstable, erratic, homicidal, typing laboriously at a public library computer in baggy jeans and worn-out sneakers, saving her life.

            “Careless,” said Maria thoughtfully. “Huh. Timestamp and monitor history check out, though. That’s our secret informant.” She shook her head. “Go figure.” 

            “What are you going to do?” asked Pepper quietly.

            “Bring him in,” snapped Maria. “You really want the Winter Soldier wandering around Manhattan? It’s gonna piss Rogers off, but we can’t leave this sort of guy alone out there. He’s dangerous.”

            “But he’s saving Stark tech from Hydra,” argued Pepper. “Saving me.”

            “Doesn’t change what he is,” said Maria. “Look, Pepper, I get it. I’ll keep him away from Tony.” She grinned. “They nearly destroyed Siberia trying to kill each other. Not gonna risk that again.” She got up. “I’m going to make some arrangements,” she said. “Don’t worry, Pepper. You’re safe, and he’ll be contained. And if Tony has his way,” she added dryly, “every Russian mobster in Manhattan is going to be blown to bits.”

            Pepper shook her head and stared at her screen, not even hearing Maria speaking to her agents on the phone. She watched the Winter Soldier sit back, a satisfied and relieved look on his face. He glanced around again, his shoulders relaxing, and it looked like he fetched a deep sigh, and smiled a little. He got up easily, and Pepper could see the bunch and pull of heavy, well-trained muscles through the worn clothing, saw him fingering what Maria had suggested might be a knife in his pocket. She shivered when he glanced over his shoulder again, pale eyes appraising and cautious, and then he left the room, and the video was over.

            Her screen flicked back to the email.

            ABDUCTION, PHYSICAL ASSAULT, VIOLENT GANG RAPE, FORCED FELLATIO AND SODOMY PLANNED

            She wondered what the Russian men organizing her abduction looked like, if they were any scarier-looking than the Winter Soldier.

            She hoped she never found out. Her savior was frightening enough.

 

*******

 

            “Vision,” said Pepper, “I need your help.”

            “Of course, Ms. Potts,” said Vision politely. He finished pouring a cup of Darjeeling in a bone china cup patterned with pink roses. “Sugar?”

            “No, thank you.” She took the cup from him and sipped. The tea was fragrant and acidic. “Oh, this is very nice. Thank you, Vision.”

            “You’re welcome. What can I do for you?”

            Vision’s room was expansive, and bright and airy. Pepper was amused to note that he was playing Mozart, and had somehow managed to acquire fresh flowers for her visit. It was nice of him to want to make her feel comfortable.

            “You can keep this request away from Tony, please,” she said, smiling.

            Vision cocked his head to one side, considering this. “Bearing in mind Mr. Stark is currently chasing your malefactors down, that should not be an issue. Does this concern the Russian mob, Hydra agents, or the anonymous email tips?”

            _Maria must not have put that into the files_ , thought Pepper. “None of the above,” she lied. “I want everything you can dig up on Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, from his draft day to the present.”

            “That is an interesting request,” said Vision solemnly. “And a delicate one, considering the current status of your relationship with Mr. Stark, and his justifiable animosity toward the Winter Soldier.”

            “I need to know,” insisted Pepper. “I want to know more about this … this monster.”

            Vision did not reply for a moment, regarding her with those unnerving golden eyes. She sipped her tea, listened to the overture of _Die Zauberflöte_ , and waited.

            “Ms. Potts,” he said slowly. “My last encounter with this man resulted in rather painful events. I fear I will not be very objective.”

            “Because you’ll be looking for things that prove he’s every bit the monster Tony says he is?” challenged Pepper, a little aggressively.

            “Because I won’t.” Vision rose and looked out the window down at Manhattan. “I can’t. Not anymore.” He looked back at her, hesitated, and then said, “I have already accessed all of his files.”

            Pepper frowned, surprised. “Why?” she demanded.

            “I was … curious,” admitted Vision. “To use a common phrase, I wanted to know our enemy.”

            “May I see them?” pressed Pepper eagerly. “The files you found?”

            Vision paused, considering her carefully, as though he were assessing her strength. “They are not … easy to read,” he said at last. “Or to watch.”

            Pepper blinked. “Watch?”

            Vision stared out over New York City. His impassive face was unreadable. “The KGB’s medical team, and Hydra’s after it, were, like their Nazi counterpart Eduard Wirths, painstaking in their research methods,” he said. “They documented all of the experiments, surgeries, cryogenic immersions and recoveries, and brainwashing techniques in intimate detail, not just in files, but on eight millimeter film.” He turned back to her, watching the realization set in.

            Pepper’s eyes widened. “Torture and … experiments?”

            Vision nodded.

            “You’ve … watched it?”

            Vision looked away. “All of it,” he said softly. “It was … difficult.” He paused. “I will … access the digital file and send it to your personal computer, if you want to read it and to watch the film. But I am warning you, Ms. Potts, you will not walk away from it unshaken.” He fixed her with a sober stare. “I didn’t.”

 

*******

 

            Two hours later, Pepper had vomited three times and given up on the digitized films. The files, she soon discovered afterwards, retching into her trash can, weren’t much better, as they contained detailed drawings, photographs, and descriptions of the horrors they had unleashed on James Buchanan Barnes.

            She went into her bathroom to wash her face and rinse out her mouth. She closed her eyes, wishing she could block out some of the images from the Winter Soldier’s files, but they were burned on the backs of her lids, horrible and sickening.

            Twenty years … it had taken them twenty years to break him. Twenty years of torture, brainwashing, anestheticless surgeries, waterboarding, starvation. And even then, the files noted, he would frequently have to be “reset” or “fine-tuned,” when Bucky Barnes managed to claw his way back to the surface and fight back. Each reboot was worse, tearing away at what little grey matter was left. After every mission, a shadow of the man he used to be would float back up, terrified, guilt-ridden, furious, and he would be frozen, or fried, or beaten down, again and again and again.

            Pepper shook off the image of bare bone and torn flesh, still hearing the tinny recorded screams of agony over the buzz of electricity. My god, if Steve ever saw this …

            If Tony ever saw this …

            Pepper slammed her laptop shut. She should delete the file. God, it was horrible.

            She went back into her office and poured herself a glass of vodka, downing it straight. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, and for a wonder, it had nothing to do with the Russian threat against her.

 

*******

 

            James, however, slept deeply, curled up tight on the cot in the back office, knife in hand. He managed to get in three hours before the nightmares hit, and when the shaking had died down, he crawled out of bed, and scrubbed the toilets over and over and over until José came in at five to open.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Black Friday, peeps! I'm avoiding the stores like always, thinking about the weather and my dogs and my friends who work retail and BUCKY. Sheraiah and I are working on a follow-up to "Bucky, No" that I hope I'll get fleshed out by the next week or so. 
> 
> Be safe out there! Enjoy your leftover turkey!
> 
> Le Rouret

**6**

 

            Lunch rush was over, so James was prepping vegetables for dinner. Milt’s wife’s choir was performing at Central Park, and he had promised to send video. It had started snowing, making the colored Christmas lights that José and Martina had hung at the front windows reflect back the glow in the flakes, green, red, blue, orange. A small and ancient aluminum Christmas tree, dug out of a dusty closet upstairs, stood in the corner, surmounted by an ugly angel that looked like a Kewpie Doll. Count Basie was on the radio, both James and D’joris humming along.

            D’joris had been listening to a rather disturbing news report about some Russian mobsters trying to take a hit out on the Stark Industries CEO. Apparently Iron Man and War Machine had taken out half the mob and a good chunk of Hydra in the process, and part of the shakedown, excluding this blatant violation of the Accords, was a scandal at the Pentagon, something about selling government secrets. James had curtly asked D’joris to change the station, and she just smiled tolerantly at him and complied. Her favorite station was playing Christmas music now, anyway, which was a lot nicer to listen to.

            The sun was already low on the horizon this time of year, so that the whole street was darkened by the shadows of high-rise buildings. José was sitting at the counter with his laptop, and several customers were quietly sipping coffee and reading the papers or their smart phones. Sassy Vaughan started crooning “I Wonder as I Wander,” and D’joris and José exchanged amused glances. James was singing softly along, face composed and calm, the turbulent white-hot fire in his eyes a low, warm flicker. He shifted easily from one foot to the other as he chopped and sliced and moved bowls around. D’joris found it amusing that the three college girls watched him so surreptitiously behind their phones, eyes flicking over his legs, his back, his shoulders. Funny what a difference three months could make in a man’s life.

            “Hey, homes,” José piped up at last. “I’m thinking about the Christmas menu. Changing the pies from apple and pumpkin to something more Christmassy. What’s more Christmassy than pumpkin pie?”

            “Fruitcake,” said James absently. He lifted a cutting board with his prosthetic and scraped the chopped onion into a bowl with a knife held in his other hand. José made a face.

            “Fruitcake, man? Who eats fruitcake these days? Use it as a doorstop, maybe.”

            James smiled, and D’joris’ heart warmed. “Well, how about eggnog pie?” she suggested. “My momma used to make eggnog pie with whipped cream. Mm-mm, that was good.”

            “Peppermint pie,” said James.

            “Peppermint?” José looked up at him. “You can make a pie out of peppermint?”

            “Vanilla pudding, peppermint extract, crushed candy canes,” said James.

            “Oh, now that will be nice,” agreed D’joris. “Make a nice change. I am so tired of the smell of pumpkin.”

            “Yeah, okay, peppermint pie,” said José, typing something into the laptop. “You make it, okay, dude? You know Milt doesn’t like changing the menu.”

            James only nodded.

            “We gonna have warm gingerbread again?” asked D’joris, refilling a customer’s coffee mug. “With Cool-Whip? That was a real hit last year.”

            “Roberto made that,” said José worriedly. “I don’t know if Milt knows how to make gingerbread.”

            “I can make gingerbread,” offered James. “Made it a lot.”

            “Gingerbread, check,” grinned José, typing. “Homes, I might as well hire a new busboy so you can be line cook with Milt.”

            “Does he get a raise?” asked D’joris dryly, folding her arms and giving José a sharp look.

            José grinned at James. “Sure!” he conceded. “We finish off the studio upstairs and buy him a real damn bed.”

            James turned to him, surprised. D’joris just clucked her tongue. “Anything to keep from giving him a goddamn raise,” she grumbled, but even she looked pleased.

            “And I get my office back, homes,” chuckled José. “What do you say, man?”

            James stared at him, looking like he didn’t quite understand at first, but then his face softened, and his lips quirked sideways into a smile. “Okay,” he murmured.

            “Awesome,” said José. “Martina’s little brother, he might be a good busboy. You’ll have to show him the ropes, though, dude.”

            “Armando?” demanded D’joris, taking a customer’s money and handing over change from the register. “That little man? Hoo, James, you gonna have your hands full with him.”

            “Hand full,” said James, holding up his prosthesis with a crooked little smile. José whooped, and D’joris clucked her tongue.

            “You behave,” she said, but she was humming when she went to ask the college girls if they wanted anything else.

            The diner emptied. Mary Lou Williams started to play a piano medley of carols. José finished updating the menu and closed his laptop. “Who’s coming in tonight?”

            “Ava,” said James.

            “Glad you’re keeping track of them, homes,” José grumbled. “Think they like you better than me.”

            “Excuse me, do _you_ help us with our coats and hold the doors for us?” demanded D’joris. “James’ momma raised him right.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” said José. The diner door jingled open. “Hey man,” he called. “Sit anywhere, we’ll be right with you.”

            “I’m here to pick up an order.”

            James whipped around so fast that D’joris and José almost missed it. He braced himself against the counter, knife upraised, his lips pulled back into a snarl. The warm, quiet light in his eye was gone, replaced by the chaotic fire they hadn’t seen in over a month.

            “Easy there, Cochise,” said the man, taking a step back and holding out his hands. “Easy.”

            He was taut and powerful-looking with a craggy, pouched face and short sandy hair. His worn leather jacket opened over a plaid shirt and grey Henley, and they could see the shiny curve of a holster across his chest. José jumped up and pushed D’joris behind himself, backing slowly away.

            “I said easy,” said the man. He gave a crooked grin. “Not here to make trouble.”

            “Barton,” croaked James, shifting his grip on the knife.

            “Barnes,” replied the man equably.

            James swallowed heavily but did not lower the knife. José and D’joris were frozen, watching them. James looked as though every bit of fear, hate, and rage had jangled back into him. They could hear his breath, hissing through his teeth, rapid and uneven.

            “In, one two three four five,” whispered D’joris, hoping he could hear her. “Out, one two three four five. In, one two three four five. Out, one two three four five.”

            James’ breathing did not change. The man Barton glanced at her and smiled again.

            “Well, Barnes,” he said casually, “this is a nice setup you’ve got, but you need to come home with me.” He gave James a very direct look. “For Christmas.”

            James said nothing, just stared at Barton, mouth working noiselessly.

            “Laura’s looking forward to seeing you,” continued Barton. “And the kids, well, you know what they’re like.” He grinned. “Christmas is for the kids, right?”

            The knife dropped a fraction of an inch. James frowned, his eyebrows lowered, and glanced away. He shifted his shoulders. Barton watched him very carefully. D’joris and José watched him too, remembering those times he would fly into an uncontrolled fury, slamming himself against the walls, screaming, or worse, crumpling into a tight little ball on the floor and rocking back and forth, back and forth, Sofia’s lavender sachet pressed to his nose, his eyes wild and scared.

            “Barnes,” said Barton softly.

            James flicked his eyes back to the man at the door. He looked very confused.

            “Come home with me, Barnes,” said Barton. “I think it’s time you got out of New York City.” He paused. “Unless you’re dying for another kind of holiday reunion.”

            James took a sharp breath, his knuckles tightening on the knife. He looked around a little wildly and backed up to the grill.

            “Easy, buddy,” said Barton. “Put the knife down.” When James hesitated, Barton added, “Come on, man. You owe me. Remember?”

            James fixed him with a look of horror. The knife trembled, then slipped through his fingers, landing on the linoleum with a clatter.

            “Good, good,” said Barton. “Get your coat. Come on, man.”

            “Hey,” said José uncertainly. “Hey, wait a minute.”

            “No ‘hey wait a minute’ about this,” said Barton, his eyes still on James. “Trust me. This is better.”

            “James,” said D’joris. “Honey.” She looked back at Barton, who watched her soberly. She got the feeling he was sorry for her. “You don’t – have to – do you?”

            James stirred, pulled his gaze back in, away from the miles away he had been. He still looked frightened, tight and unhappy, but she could tell he was in there, present, comprehending. Abruptly he turned and went into the back room. They heard rustling and banging. Barton didn’t move, just stood by the front door, waiting. After a moment James came back out, his eyes fixed on the floor, his hair out of its restricting ponytail and hanging across his face. He was wearing his coat and holding a decrepit duffel bag.

            “Wait a minute!” protested José again. “Hey, just wait a minute, he just got a promotion, homes! He’s my new line chef!”

            “Not anymore,” said Barton. He watched James approach. James was taller than he, but was rounding in, hunching down, dropping his head, trying to seem smaller. It broke D’joris’ heart to see him retreat, bowed down, numb and cold, when just a few minutes ago he had been singing Christmas songs and talking about gingerbread.

            “ _James_ ,” she insisted, and stepped around José. “Please. James.”

            Barton had taken the backpack and turned to the front door, his hand on the middle bar. He looked back, watching as James paused, his right hand opening and closing, opening and closing. Those broad, slumped shoulders shook a little.

            Then, in less than a second, James was on D’joris, his arms around her middle-aged body, face pressed hard into the plump curve of her shoulder and neck. He was vibrating, rattling to pieces, wetting her uniform collar with his tears, and she wrapped her little arms around him as far as she could and held him together.

            It lasted a lifetime, it lasted three seconds. Then James whispered into her collar, “Thank you for being my friend.” Just as abruptly, he tore away from her, hiding his face behind his hair, and strode out of the diner, Barton on his heels. Barton gave them a wry smile.

            “Merry Christmas,” he said sadly, and the diner door closed with a jingle.

 

*******

            Ava cried, and Milt came back to the diner mid-concert in as close to a rage as anyone had ever seen him. He waved his big arms around and shouted, disregarding the customers who just wanted beef pie and mashed potatoes. “And you just let him GO?” Milt boomed, knocking two metal bowls off the top shelf with his fist. They crashed to the floor and the diner went silent. “You didn’t STOP him?”

            “He went on his own,” said D’joris. Her face was still streaked with tears, but she had adjusted her makeup and was fiercely making change at the register. “Yes, he was scared, but it looked like he thought he was making the right decision.”

            “You just let him GO?” Milt repeated. “With some strange dude with a GUN?” He turned away, disgusted and shaking his head. “Damn,” he said, and kicked the wall. “DAMN.”

            “He said he was going home for Christmas,” supplied José helpfully. “Family and kids, that kind of thing, you know?”

            “He was safe here!” retorted Milt hotly. “He liked it here! He liked us! We liked him!”

            “Oh, I’m gonna miss him so much!” sniffled Ava, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Poor Jamesie. He was getting so much better, too.”

            “I can’t believe you let him go,” muttered Milt. He tied on his apron and glared at the grill. “Damn.”

            “Maybe he’ll come back,” suggested Ava hopefully.

            “I doubt it,” said D’joris.

            The front door jingled again. Milt turned and bellowed, “We’re closing!”

            “Well, that’s good,” said a woman’s voice. “Because you’re all leaving. Now.”

            They all turned, diner employees and customers alike. A tall, elegant woman in a dark jumpsuit stood at the door, flanked by two helmeted and heavily armed men.

            “Oh, god,” whispered D’joris, thinking that James had gotten out just in time.

 

*******

 

            Twenty minutes later, they all stood huddled on the street, watching the woman and her enforcers tear the diner apart top to bottom. They couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was gesticulating angrily at them. She waved the gunmen into the back again and burst out the front door, phone to her ear, ignoring the diner employees.

            “Sir?” she said. “He’s in the wind.” There was a pause. “I know, sir, I’m sorry. Apparently he was one step ahead of us as usual.” Pause. “Yes sir. Right away, sir.” She hung up and glared at them, pressed against each other, a united and protective front. “I can’t make you talk,” she snapped. “And I get the feeling you don’t want to.”

            D’joris raised her chin. “If you have anything to do with the state that boy was in when he came here,” she said firmly, “you can go straight to hell where you belong, and God have mercy on your soul, ‘cause the devil sure the hell won’t.”

            The woman stared at D’joris a little disbelievingly, her pale eyes hard and contemplative. The corner of her mouth twitched. Then she looked from one to the other, calmly appraising. “Do you realize who,” she began, but then her phone buzzed again. She sighed and picked it up. “Pepper?” Pause. “No, I was too late. He’s gone.” Another pause. “Yes. I know.” She pursed her lips. “You’re right, no, you’re probably right. No, don’t tell Tony. Okay. Okay. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She clicked the phone off and looked at them all, exasperated. “My god,” she breathed. “This op, this fucking op.” She shook her head and gestured one of her men over. “Clean up the diner,” she instructed him. “Put everything back where it belongs, and I mean _everything_. I don’t want a fork out of place. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “José Vargas,” said the woman. “You will be amply compensated for any loss of revenue our search incurred. We apologize for the intrusion.” She handed over a business card. José took it tentatively, as though it would bite him. “Contact me tomorrow,” she said, walking away. “My god, this fucking op.”

            José fumbled the card and it fluttered to the sidewalk. D’joris picked it up and looked at it.

            _Agent M. Hill_

_S.H.I.E.L.D._

_***_

            The ride to the farm house was wordless, six hours of silence that Barton didn’t try to break. The man slouched on the seat beside him stared blankly out of the passenger side window, not even measuring the miles. The rides in the taxi and the helicopter had been the same – unvarying, deathly quiet. Barton felt as though he were transporting a ghost.

            Maybe he was.

            He wasn’t sure why he was doing it – as a favor to Steve, as a poke in the eye to Hill, as a big _Fuck You_ to Tony. It didn’t matter. He was doing it. He was going to bring this crazy, scary, brain-dead Hydra puppet into his family’s home and hope to god nothing went wrong.

            Well, he’d had Banner in there, right? That had worked out okay.

            They turned off the highway and rumbled down the broken, icy road. It was snowing again, flakes flaring like shooting stars across the headlights. They had been traveling all night without a word between them, and Barton scraped at his brain for something he could say to break through the cold, unhappy shell of a man beside him.

            Two more turns, and then the long driveway. He could see the house in his headlights, lit up for Christmas, two deformed and crooked snowmen welcoming his car back to the barn. Barnes stirred beside him. Barton glanced over. Barnes was scowling with concentration, mouth working silently, blinking, wondering.

            “My home,” said Barton. The first words he’d spoken in nine hours dropped like an anchor in the water. He cleared his throat. “We’re here.”

            Barnes said nothing, but scrabbled around a little for his duffel bag with the prosthesis. Barton winced to himself. On the one hand, it was probably a good thing that an assassin with this history was hobbled by the loss of an arm. On the other hand, he was pissed as hell at Stark for tearing this man apart, for being yet another rich, selfish asshole who hurt Steve Rogers’ best friend.

            The sun was climbing out of the trees to the east, sending bright malachite and vermilion streaks across the dark grey snow clouds. Barton pulled the car to a stop in the garage and got out, rubbing his back. Getting old was hell.

            Barnes opened the passenger side door slowly and unfolded himself from the car, his eyes everywhere. The duffel bag was hooked on his prosthetic hand, and his other hand, the only good one, was opening and closing, opening and closing.

            “This way,” said Barton. When Barnes hesitated, Barton added, “This is a safe house.”

            Barnes finally looked at him. His eyes were dead and tired. “Not anymore,” he grated.

            Barton wasn’t going to let that one go. “You stow that crap, buddy,” he said firmly, sticking his finger in Barnes’ face. Barnes stared blankly back at him, mouth open a little, lowering his brows. “You listen. You’re gonna walk into my house and meet Laura and the kids. And if anyone, like Stark, SHIELD, those damn Russian mobsters, or Hydra, comes after you, you and me, we’re gonna kick their asses, and this will be the safest goddamn house in America because we’ll  be here, you and me, two fuckwits who’ve had enough of those fucking assholes, we’ll do it together. You got that?”

            Barnes was silent, staring down at Barton through his hair. At last his mouth shut, and the restless storm of his eyes died down a little. “Yeah,” he conceded quietly. “Okay.”

            “Good,” snapped Barton. “Gimme your bag.”

            “It’s not that heav-“

            “I said give me the fucking bag, Barnes.”

            Barnes paused, then his upper lip curled into a vague parody of a smile. “Bossy,” he murmured, but he handed it over anyway. It was disturbingly light.

            They walked up the snowy, light-lined steps to the front door. The whole house seemed to glow with warmth, and Barton swore he could smell fresh biscuits. “Hot damn,” he groaned to himself. He didn’t know about Barnes, but he could eat a horse.

            The door was unlocked. Barton swung it open. Sure enough, biscuits, and if he was not mistaken, bacon and eggs. God, he loved his wife. “Honey!” he called. “I’m home!”

            “Finally!” came Laura’s voice. She rounded the corner from the kitchen, beaming, wiping her hands on a linen towel. “Come here, you.”

            Barton pulled her into a satisfying kiss. She tasted like home, and he was so deep in love, he could never find his way back out. He felt Barnes’ presence at his back, heavy and dark, a brooding, broken hole. Time to start putting some pieces back together.

            He released Laura, and she said cheerfully, “Now, let me meet our guest!”

            She went straight to Barnes. He flinched back a little, but she pretended not to notice and took his right hand in her own, kissing his stubbled cheek. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said warmly. “Any friend of Steve’s is welcome here.”

            Barnes stared down at her. His lips curled up again. He’d have to be careful or that would become a habit. “Thank you,” he whispered.

            “Where are the kids?” asked Barton curiously.

            “Attic,” said Laura. “Cooper thinks that’s where I’ve hidden the Christmas presents. I’m letting him tear the attic apart looking for them. Keeps them out of my hair.” Her eyes twinkled. “Come on in, you two. Bet you want some breakfast.” She turned to Barnes and started for the kitchen. “You like bacon, don’t you?”

            Barnes hesitated, obviously thinking very hard. Then he said slowly, “Everybody likes bacon.”

            “Damn straight,” declared Barton. He clapped Barnes on the shoulder and led him to the kitchen with a smile.

 


	7. Third and Sixteenth 7

**7**

 

            Laura counted the number of words that Barnes used every day.

            Day one: five.

            Day two: eight.

            Day three: twelve, but Barton said the last three didn’t count as three, because “goddammit” was technically only one word when mashed together that way. No one really blamed Barnes for swearing when something happened that was as traumatic as stepping on a Lego. Barefoot.

            Day four: fifty-nine. Again, Barton disagreed with her tally, saying that Green Eggs and Ham’s fifty words didn’t count, and anyway Barnes had actually read the book to Lila three times, bringing the score – according to Laura’s count – to one hundred fifty nine.

            Day five: Laura was sure Barnes was going to bottom out at three until he offered to help Cooper build a model Quinjet. Between Cooper spilling the glue and Barnes getting the turret stuck to his middle finger, the final tally was ninety-seven. Ninety-eight, if you counted the muttered “’night” when he went to bed.

            Day six, Lila found him huddled in a ball in the guest room closet, rocking back and forth, his eyes burning and blistered. Barton climbed into the closet with him (much to Laura’s dismay, as he had already dismantled the downstairs toilet and it lay in wet porcelain pieces all over the half bath) and spoke gently to him for hours, his voice a quiet hum behind the closet door. By noon, Barton gave up, having succeeded only in getting Barnes to rock back and forth on the floor of the guest room instead of the closet.

            At midnight, Baby Nate, squalling and unhappy with his incoming molars, pushed Laura a little too far. She marched into the guest room. “Here,” she said, exhausted. “As long as you’re rocking, rock this.” She shoved Baby Nate into Barnes’ arms and left.

            Fifteen minutes later, sitting on the floor by Barnes’ closed door, Laura and Barton could hear a wobbly tenor lullaby, and Nate’s crying slowed, then stopped

            “Russian?” whispered Laura.

            “Romanian,” said Barton tiredly, rubbing his eyes. For day six, zero, since he hadn’t sung anything until after midnight, and, as Barton said, Romanian didn’t count.

            Day seven, Laura tentatively opened Barnes’ door to find out what happened to her youngest son, only to see them fast asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets on the floor. Baby Nate was splayed on Barnes’ chest, drooling into his red tee shirt, and Barnes was snoring slightly, his prosthetic arm detached and propped up against the side table. It looked like it was waving at her. Barnes opened his eyes groggily, put his right hand on Baby Nate’s back, and gave Laura the most genuine and sheepish smile she’d seen all week. Later that day, he helped her husband put the toilet back together.

            Day eight, she stopped counting.

            He made cookies with Cooper and Lila, trees and Santa heads and stars and wreaths, helping Laura mix the food coloring into the icing and straightening Lila’s Red Hots when she got frustrated because they weren’t _just right_. Laura took a surreptitious picture of him with her phone, his hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, Baby Nate on his lap, green icing smeared down his cheek. His steel-blue eyes were soft and warm, and he was laughing at something Cooper said. _Laughing_. Laura had to leave the kitchen so they wouldn’t see her cry.

            Day nine, he helped cut down the big blue spruce in the back forty, and haul it through the snow to the homestead. Cooper and Lila were beyond excited, running and laughing and singing “Jingle Bells” for two hours straight, begging their mother to give them a hint where the Christmas presents were hiding. “No dice,” said Barton firmly. “Don’t you want to be surprised on Christmas?”

            “I want to know now!” shouted Cooper. “I want to know now! Don’t you want to know now, Mr. Barnes?”

            Barnes, Baby Nate bundled and fussy on his hip, only grinned a little and shook his head. “Sometimes surprises are better,” he asserted, wiping Nate’s nose with a tissue.

            They decorated the tree with colored lights, old-fashioned tinsel, and glass ornaments (Cooper broke four, Lila two), and warmed their cold, chapped hands with hot chocolate. Barton thoughtfully mixed a little rum in with his and Barnes’ – maybe a little too much rum; Barnes took a sip, choked and coughed a little, and gave Barton a surprised look. Barton grinned, and to his satisfaction, Barnes grinned back. That was a good night.

            Day ten was the day of Lila’s ballet performance of “The Nutcracker.” Barnes made a face when Lila begged him to go. “I don’t like ballet,” he said shortly, and Barton remembered Nat’s stories of the Red Room, and wondered if Barnes had ever seen it. There had been rumors, after all. But between Lila’s tears and Laura’s gentle persuasion – Barton didn’t dare call it “nagging” – they managed to stuff Barnes into a halfway decent black shirt and trousers, and dragged him into town.

            For the most part he sat, crouched low and uncomfortable, his eyes everywhere. Every entrance and egress, every window, creak of a floor board, sudden shouted laugh had him on edge, and Barton considered bringing him back home. Then, after Lila’s solo as the Sugarplum Fairy, he turned around and realized Barnes was gone.

            Barton swore, long, creatively, and (after Laura shot him a dirty look) under his breath. He slipped out the back of the performance hall onto the snowy street, cursing Barnes and his poor, fried brain.

            He walked up and down the street a little aimlessly, trying to think what on earth Barnes would be doing in a town this small. He wouldn’t have rabbited, would he? That would be awkward, especially when Laura and the kids got wind of it, and Clint scowled, thinking of hunting around the surrounds, searching for a one-armed man who was determined to not be found.

            But then, just when he’d decided he’d better start asking around, he overheard a woman exiting a store say, “Oh, my god, that was the most intimidating man I’ve ever seen in my life!”

            “I know, right?” her partner agreed. “So creepy and scary!”

            _Bingo_ , he thought, because after all, who was more intimidating in this little town than he? He ducked into the shop, realizing at the last moment it was a sporting equipment store, and stopped in amazement.

            The Winter Soldier was holding a black Mizuno baseball glove, flexing the leather with the fingers of his right hand while he held it firmly with the prosthetic. He was glaring down at it, and the shop owner was nervously expounding its assets. Barton watched as Barnes convinced the shop owner to let him have the next level up for the price of the midgrade, then stepped forward as Barnes dug a roll of twenties out of his pocket. He glanced down at Barton and nodded briefly.

            “Cooper?” asked Barton.

            “He needs to choke up on the bat,” clipped Barnes. He handed over his money, and the shop owner took the glove back to wrap it. Barnes cleared his throat. “I’ll show him. When it’s not. You know. Snowing.”

            “Hm.” Barton ran his finger down an aluminum bat on the counter. “Didn’t know you played.”

            “Bushwicks, 1933,” said Barnes.

            Barton’s eyebrows went up. “Huh,” he said.

            He led Barnes to an art store, where he purchased a big pad of heavy-duty drawing paper, and some rather nice art markers for Lila. At the local excuse for a Williams-Sonoma, Barnes forked out for a new electric griddle for Laura, and Barton winced at the price, but allowed that whatever tips Barnes had earned as a busboy might as well be put to good use. Barnes, after all, owed Barton’s family quite a lot.

            “Got a couple questions for ya,” said Barton as they walked back through the snowy sidewalks to the performance hall. Barton was amused to see people actively avoiding Barnes as he strode alone, shopping bags in tow, but Barnes didn’t even seem to notice them. He was watching the lights, flickering on in the growing gloom, the waving animatronic Santas and creepy flashing fake reindeer and balls of plastic mistletoe and holly. Barnes was very incongruous, his stride almost a swagger, broad-shouldered and dark, long hair drifting over pale eyes burning bright with something that wasn’t quite sanity.

            Barnes didn’t reply, which Barton took as acquiescence.

            “How’d you get to the States?”

            “Somali transport plane,” said Barnes shortly. Barton figured that was probably as much as Barnes wanted him to know about that.

            “And the prosthetic arm?” he queried. “Where’d that come from?”

            The corner of Barnes’ mouth twitched a little. “Atlanta VA morgue.”

            Barton prudently decided not to press him.

            “So. A New York City diner?”

            “Worked at the Woolworth’s three years,” said Barnes. “At the counter.”

            Barton grinned. “Soda jerk, eh?”

            Barnes just stared at him for a moment, parsing this. “Yes,” he finally said. “Jerk.”

            Baby Nate got a toddler-sized bat and ball, much to Barton’s dismay. “He’s gonna wreck the house with this thing,” he complained, but allowed Barnes this indulgence.

            They made it back to the performance hall in time for the highly modified finale and bows. Barnes had even thought to pick up a little rose wrapped in pink tissue paper, and Lila’s delighted face when he presented it to her was worth the whole trip. As they struggled their way out of the pressing scrum of parents and screaming kids into the dark streets, Barton overheard Masie, one of Laura’s friends, shout: “Who braided Lila’s hair? It looks great!”

            “Oh! That was James over there,” Laura called back. Barton looked at Barnes in surprise. He was scarlet, but offered no explanation.

            All three kids fell asleep in the car on the drive home. Barton let Barnes carry Baby Nate, while he and Laura wrangled the two older children into their pajamas and beds. They met in the hallway outside the kids’ rooms. Laura was smiling.

            “Kind of nice to not be outnumbered anymore, isn’t it?” she whispered.

            “Don’t go giving him any ideas,” warned Barton sternly, but he didn’t mean it.

            They peered into Baby Nate’s room. Barnes had changed Nate into his footie pajamas and stood at the side of his crib, staring down at him. His face was partially hidden by the stringy fall of hair, but Barton could see the familiar twist and flicker in his eyes, the restless chewing and mouthing. His prosthetic rested lightly on the crib rail. Barton turned to his wife to ask what he should do, but she was gone.

            Barton stepped into the dark room. “Hey, bud,” he said softly.

            Barnes didn’t respond right away. His mouth closed, lips tightening, brows twitching together. Then he turned, looked at Barton, and licked his lips.

            “Need to put the kids’ presents in Laura’s hiding place,” he whispered. “And have a drink. A big one. Maybe eggnog. With a shit-ton of rum.”

            Barnes’ eyes focused, and he seemed to return to himself. “Yeah,” he breathed, and followed Barton out of the room.

            Even Barton stopped counting days after that. That might’ve had something to do with the eggnog hangover he acquired. Barnes, damn his enhanced metabolism, hadn’t felt a thing.

            The message from Nat came around day thirteen or fourteen – Barton wasn’t sure. By that time, Barnes was running Cooper and a couple of his friends through a quick-and-dirty hit-and-swing camp, though the other kids’ mothers were extremely nervous about letting their sons play in the barn with “that creepy Mr. Barnes guy.” Only Jimmy McCrary’s mother, fresh from her latest divorce and looking for her next conquest, eyed the way his jeans tightened and pulled around his thighs, chewing thoughtfully on one manicured nail.

            Barton read Nat’s message in the yard. He still wasn’t entirely sure what she would say if he told her he had the Winter Soldier staying as a house guest. He kind of hoped she’d found Banner and was lying, bikini-clad, with her dorky scientist rage monster boyfriend on an island near Fiji. Sadly, she appeared to be stuck somewhere in Finland, running ops below the radar. She sounded a little angry.

            “Got a call from Maria,” she ended the message. “She had a bead on the Winter Soldier, but lost him. Let me know if you hear anything. See you in January.”

            Barton winced. That could be awkward.

            “What’s up?” asked Laura. She had Baby Nate on one hip. Barton could hear Lila and one of her playdate friends running and screaming behind the barn, and every now and then Barnes’ voice: “Hands here. Tight, pinkie to thumb. That’s right. Flex your knees.” Then the snap and crack of a bat connecting with a ball, and four boys cheering as something knocked over a tray of tools. Barton sighed.

            “Nat’ll be back January,” he said.

            “Good,” said Laura warmly.

            “Not good,” said Barton. He gestured with his chin to the barn. “We’ve got a house guest, remember?”

            “Oh!” said Laura. She thought for a moment. “Well, it won’t be so bad, will it? They’re not technically mortal enemies anymore, right? Even if they did try to kill each other. I mean, you and Nat once tried to kill each other, and that turned out okay, didn’t it?”

            “It might be a little more awkward than just the let’s-kill-each-other vibe,” said Barton grimly. “Apparently, before the whole bikini-ruining moment, they shared a, uh, um … “ He trailed off, blushing inexplicably.

            “Oh,” said Laura, and then, “OH.” She grimaced. “Yeah, okay. That might be a bit much.”

            “You’re telling me,” said Barton.

            “I’m not sure which would be worse,” said Laura. “If he remembered her … or if he _didn’t_.”

            “That’s a toss-up, all right,” agreed her husband.

 

**O*O*O*O**

            Barton was positive Barnes would outright refuse to accompany them to Midnight Mass. To his surprise, Barnes readily assented, and even helped the kids get ready. His prosthetic was amazingly adept at braiding hair, tying bows, and straightening ties and vests. Stuffing Baby Nate into the snappy three-piece suit Laura’s mother had sent, however, proved even too much for the Winter Soldier’s efforts, and Nate rode into church on his nemesis’ hip, proud of his corduroy pants and Santa sweatshirt.

            Barnes sat still and attentive during the Mass, only pausing once to frown over at Jimmy McCrary when the boy pinched his sister. Little Jimmy shrank back into the pew, eyes wide, and Barnes gave him the stink-eye for a good twenty seconds before he was satisfied the kid would behave for the rest of the service. Jimmy’s mother’s melting and grateful smile appeared to puzzle him, though, and he sat for the rest of Mass with his eyebrows knotted, glancing curiously over at her from time to time.

            He even rose to receive the Eucharist, crossing his hand and prosthetic over his chest and bowing his dark, untidy head before Father Crakes. If he shivered when he received the priest’s blessing, Barton pretended he didn’t see.

            There was a reception downstairs, noisy and bright, and far too protracted for small children. Barton gave Barnes an out, but Cooper and Lila looked so happy and excited that there was apparently no question about staying. Barton and Laura tried to keep a close eye on Barnes, making sure he was never cornered, or started getting that trapped, wild look.

            Kids were screaming and running around the rec hall, and the punch and cider flowed freely. Barton took his third cup and wished he had some whiskey. He felt someone pluck at his arm and turned. It was Masie, one of Laura’s friends, whose daughter danced with Lila. “Clint!”

            “Oh! Hi, Masie,” said Barton. His eyes tracked the rec hall. Cooper had just knocked over a plate of cheese, Lila and her friends were dancing around a support strut, and Laura was talking to Deacon Sanders’ wife. He didn’t see Barnes, which made him a little nervous.

            “How have your holidays been?” shouted Masie. She looked a little flushed, but Barton attributed that to the extreme body heat in the rec room.

            “Good!” said Barton. “How about you guys? Bill get the basement finished in time for Christmas?”

            “No, not yet,” admitted Masie. “One of the struts collapsed and I was hoping you and your brother could help us out after Christmas Day. I’ll feed you guys. If you don’t mind.”

            Barton’s mind straggled sideways. “My brother?” he said, confused.

            “James,” said Masie. “Isn’t he your brother? The sexy-scary one.”

            “I get the scary part,” grinned Barton. “No, he’s just a family friend.”

            “He looks strong, even with only one arm,” said Masie. “So could you guys help? I’ll trade a babysitting night.”

            That was always welcome. “Sure,” said Barton. “I’ll ask him.”

            “Thanks,” said Masie. “Figured I’d better get my request in before Pam McCrary dragged him off to a dark corner somewhere.”

            That was an unsettling thought, though Barton wasn’t sure if he was more worried about Pam McCrary or Barnes. “Thanks for the warning,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

            “Merry Christmas, Clint.”

            Barton decided that it was time his family – “brother” included – head back to the homestead. It was almost two in the morning, and the kids would be bears in the morning. Then again, maybe they’d sleep past five – a first on a Christmas for them.

            He caught up with Laura, picking up Baby Nate from the nursery, and corralled Cooper and Lila. Barnes drifted up to the car just as Barton was ready to go back into the church to look for him. “Where the hell you been?” he demanded. Barnes’ shoes were soaking wet, and his cheeks reddened from the cold, but he seemed calm enough.

            He looked at the pavement. “I’m here now.”

            “Good,” said Barton, relieved. “Let’s get the hell home.”

            They piled in the car and headed back. It was snowing. Barton was glad; that meant the kids could use the new sleds he’d bought them. It would get them out of the house long enough to get the turkey in the oven, at least.

            Once again, all three children fell asleep in the car. This time, Barton made Barnes carry Cooper one-handed upstairs, as penance for making them wait in the parking lot. He tucked Lila in, hearing from across the hallway Cooper’s sleepy questions, and Barnes’ quiet rejoinders. Barton rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired. Christmas was for the kids, but damned if it didn’t get more complicated every year. He was actually looking forward to Empty Nest Syndrome.

            He softly shut Lila’s door with a snick just as Barnes was exiting Cooper’s room. Laura was still singing a soft lullaby to Baby Nate. Barton grinned at Barnes, who smiled back. “Whiskey?”

            “Hell, yes,” said Barnes, and followed him downstairs.

            Barton poked the fire back to life while Barnes poured them each two fingers on the rocks. They sat in the dark, flickering gloom, the tree twinkling cheerfully beside them. There were five stockings on the mantle, embroidered and waiting for Santa to fill them. Barton groaned a little to himself. Santa had hidden the stocking-stuffers in his desk drawer, and he shouldn’t go to bed until he’d stuffed all of them. He took a long swallow of the whiskey.

            “I guess you found someone to talk to tonight,” he said quietly.

            Barnes didn’t answer for a moment, but shifted restlessly, brows lowered. Barton frowned at him. “What?” he asked.

            “I guess I did,” said Barnes, a little lamely.

            Barton stared. “Don’t tell me you porked that McCrary woman.”

            Barnes started and blushed, then laughed a little ruefully. “What, her? No, hell, no.”

            “Thank god for that,” said Barton firmly. “Stay away from her, man. Talk about a soul-sucking parasite.”

            “I’ll remember that,” said Barnes with a small smile.

            They were both silent for a moment. The fire cracked and popped, and they could hear Laura moving quietly around the second story. Barton smiled. Christmas Eve was one of his favorite nights of the year. All the preparations, the presents and wrapping paper, the tree and ornaments and lights, concerts and dances and programs and church and food, and when it was just hovering on the cusp of realization – when kids dreamed of Santa and adults collapsed gratefully into their beds and there was no chance in hell of buying one more goddamn Christmas present and having it arrive on time, not even with Amazon Prime – he and Laura would giggle and shush each other to bed, and he would sink gratefully into her trembling, loving warmth, letting the world and SHIELD and Hydra and the Avengers go fuck themselves for at least another twenty-four hours. The soft, warm hours of sleep between Christmas Eve and the ungodly time his kids thought Christmas Day started were his favorite hours of the year.

            It was silent, but unlike the trip from New York, this silence wasn’t cold or uncomfortable. Barnes was stretched out easily, long legs and torso a healthy ellipse against the cushy leather armchair, cradling his empty glass in his prosthetic hand. His pale eyes watched the fire, and for the first time, Barton thought he could actually see Bucky Barnes in there, cocksure and content, the flicker of a memory of a young man dressed to kill in 1944.

            Barton didn’t realize he’d drifted off until Barnes shook him lightly by the arm. “Hey,” he whispered. “Barton. Time for bed.”

            “Hm. Oh. Yeah,” said Barton. He heaved himself up stretched. “Oh, my god,” he groaned. “And Cooper and Lila think the earlier Christmas starts, the better.”

            Barnes gave a ghost of a chuckle. “Christmas is for the kids.”

            “Hell on the grown-ups, though.” Barton yawned. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Barnes.”

            “Good night, Barton. Merry Christmas.”

            “Merry Christmas.”

            Barton made his painful way upstairs. Laura was already in bed, though not asleep. “There you are,” she breathed into his neck as he fell against her, kissing her hair. “Thought you and James would stay down there all night.”

            “Nope,” said Barton. His kisses had moved to other, more interesting places. “I’ve got a better place to be.”

            Laura laughed softly and took him into her arms.

            Right before sleep swallowed him, Barton lurched awake with the feeling he’d forgotten something important. “Laura!” he hissed. “We didn’t get a stocking for Barnes!”

            “I took care of it,” she said sleepily, and Barton gratefully drifted off.

 

**O*O*O*O*O**

 

            Cooper and Lila managed to sleep until seven. It was a record for them. “Merry Christmas!” they shrieked, jumping up and down on their parents’ bed. “Wake up, wake up, wake up! It’s Christmas! Let’s open presents! I wanna see my stocking! I wanna scrambled egg!” Then they rushed off like a whirlwind, leaving Barton and his wife rubbing their eyes ruefully, smiling at each other.

            “Merry Christmas, honey,” yawned Barton affectionately.

            “Merry Christmas, you big sap,” replied Laura with a smile. “Make me coffee?”

            “Best thing I’ve heard yet,” grunted Barton.

            They got Nate up, who was fussing about all the noise, but there was nothing stirring in Barnes’ room. “Do you think he’s still asleep?” whispered Laura.

            “I hope so,” said Barton. “I don’t think he’s slept longer than four or five hours a night since he got here.”

            Cooper and Lila wanted to do their stockings right away, but Barton insisted on coffee for the grown-ups first. “Trust me,” he growled into his cup. “You don’t want to see Santa without his cup of joe.”

            The kids waited an impressive twenty minutes for Mr. Barnes to come downstairs, poking and kicking each other until it degenerated into punches and pinches. “All right, enough!” barked Barton. “I’ll drag his creepy ass out of bed myself.”

            He climbed the stairs, hearing his children’s squabbling fade. Barnes’ door was still closed. Barton knocked.

            No answer.

            Barton pushed the door open and looked inside. The bed was neatly made, and the curtains drawn back, letting in the pale December dawn. No one was inside.

            Cursing under his breath, Barton went in. He checked the closet and under the bed, then went into the little bathroom. There was a note on the mirror, in neat block letters.

            _Thank you_

_Good bye_

_Tell the kids merry Christmas and I’m sorry_

_Clint’s present is in the barn_

_J.B.B._

            Barton swore again, this time louder. Barnes must have heard him talking about Nat. Or maybe he had seen someone Barton had missed in the rec room at church last night. God, why hadn’t Barton been paying attention? How could he have let this happen?

            He slipped out the back door and crossed the snow-covered yard to the barn. There were no footprints anywhere, although it hadn’t snowed since two AM. Winter Soldier, indeed.

            He pushed the barn doors open and looked around, still half-heartedly hoping his “present” was Bucky Barnes waiting with a grin for Christmas. No such luck. After poking around a little, Barton found the tee ball set. There was a little package on it, wrapped in newspaper. Barton opened it.

            It was an arrowhead.

            Hand-chipped stone, dusty and ancient. Barton ran his thumb over it. Still sharp. There was a note in the paper, in Barnes’ graceful, old-fashioned script.

            _Thessalio-Danubian Neolithic leaf arrowhead circ. 4000 BCE, Germany_

_Found this during one of our Hydra raids, about 1944_

_See you around, Hawkeye_

_Bucky_

 

 

 

**_*fin*_ **


End file.
